


The Care and Keeping of Connor McDavid

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Boston University Terriers, Bromance to Romance, College Hockey, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Here are the things that Jack knows about Connor McDavid:1. He’s very good at hockey. Like, maybe-better-than-Jack good at hockey.2. He’s upsettingly Canadian, which happens to make it a matter of international interest that he…3. Snubbed the CHL and committed to BU last spring.4. Also, Connor McDavid signed his commitment literally thirty minutes after Jack did, which was extremely irritating, because exactly two of his friends congratulated him before everybody started talking about Connor McDavid instead. Jack feels down to his very bones that this is something he’s probably going to have to get used to, because…5. Connor McDavid is probably going to go first in the NHL draft come June. Which means that, barring an unlikely death in the McDavid family or an actual nuclear apocalypse, Jack is going to have to settle for second place.6. Again.





	1. SEPTEMBER

“So,” Forts says finally, after an agonizing ten minutes of cutting his eyes over at Jack and then pointedly sipping at this coffee. “Do we like him?” 

Jack grinds his teeth together, shrugs hard, and doesn’t even have to ask who he’s talking about. Forts turns to look at the man in question, who is waiting patiently in line behind a few giggling sorority girls for scrambled eggs that Jack learned to avoid his second day here.  

“I mean,” Forts says, after another long minute. “He is our teammate, you know?” 

Jack knows. In fact, it’s one of the very few things that he does know about Connor McDavid, the other things being: 

  1. He’s very good at hockey. Like, maybe-better-than-Jack good at hockey.   
  

  2. He’s upsettingly Canadian, which happens to make it a matter of international interest that he…   
  

  3. Snubbed the CHL and committed to BU last spring (snubbed being the word that keeps getting used, because apparently the CHL has its head so far up its own ass that it assumes all God-fearing Canadian boys with an ounce of talent in their body will fall obediently into line. This is, of course, the same league that uses bullshit phrases like ‘exceptional status,’ which, non-coincidentally, Connor McDavid was granted, and also snubbed. Jack would like to register a complaint on principle).   
  

  4. Also, Connor McDavid signed his commitment literally thirty minutes after Jack did. Which, like, Jack knows that this was not an intentional thing, but it was an extremely irritating thing nonetheless, because exactly two of his friends congratulated him before everybody started talking about Connor McDavid instead. Jack feels down to his very bones that this is something he’s probably going to have to get used to, because…   
  

  5. Connor McDavid is probably going to go first in the NHL draft come June. Which means that, barring an unlikely death in the McDavid family or an actual nuclear apocalypse, Jack is going to have to settle for second place.    
  

  6. Again. 



All of these things are the reason that Jack makes a noise not unlike a dying animal when Forts reminds him that all of these things also mean that, technically, Connor McDavid falls under the rules of the binding oath of brotherhood that Jack once swore to honor with all his teammates, present and future, on a paperback copy of  _Twilight_ (because nobody could find a copy of the Bible) one night back in Michigan after they’d all polished off a bottle of vodka. Hanny was wearing his billet sister’s graduation gown and looked like a judge and they’d all cut open their thumbs with a kitchen knife for the blood oath, which, yeah, in hindsight, seems like a really good way to get gangrene or, like, syphilis or something, but… the point is.  

Connor McDavid’s their teammate now. Also, as Jack watches, Connor McDavid trips over his own foot and very nearly drops his whole breakfast plate on the floor next to the very high heels of the girl in front of him. She turns and gives him a look of complete disdain. 

Forts turns and gives Jack a look, too, albeit one filled with a lot more sympathy, because he’s a much better person than Jack is. To his credit, he has been very much on Jack’s side of the fight that Connor McDavid doesn’t know he’s having with Jack since the Signing Fiasco of spring 2014. Fortchy is usually on Jack’s side. It’s one of his better qualities.  

“Fuck,” Jack swears, more-or-less under his breath, and then bellows across the caf, “McDavid!” 

Connor turns so sharply that he’s in very real danger of nearly dropping his plate again. The girl at the next table over turns and looks at Jack with a glare that might be daunting if he hadn’t spent most of his childhood learning to ignore similar looks from his sister.  

Plus, Forts smiles over at her, which goes a long way towards calming her down.  

“So, we do like him?” Forts asks, “Just to be clear?” 

“Fortchy,” Jack says sadly, and stabs a piece of cantaloupe with vigor. “He needs us.”   

“Hi,” Connor says a little hesitantly, and puts his plate down across from Jack. “I’m… Connor?” 

Jack stops chewing. “Are you sure?” He asks.  

“Yes, I’m sure. Sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Forts coughs, pointedly, which Jack takes to mean that he’s being an asshole.  

“Sorry,” Connor says again.  

“We know who you are,” Forts says, and Jack stabs another piece of cantaloupe.  

_We had team orientation yesterday,_ Jack thinks, and doesn’t say. He does say, “don’t eat that,” through his half-chewed fruit, as Connor picks up his fork and aims it in the direction of whatever this school apparently calls scrambled eggs. 

“Um?” Connor says, and looks down at his plate.  

“No, seriously,” Jack says, “I know, like, protein or whatever, but it’s seriously not worth it.” 

“Jack’s been here all summer,” Forts says. “He took a class.” 

“History of Boston,” Jack volunteers. “It was pretty cool. I mean, for a summer class. But yeah, dude, I wouldn’t make that mistake twice, you know? Your funeral.” 

“Oh,” Connor says, and lays down his fork. Quite the conversationalist.  

Jack meets Fortchy’s eyes over the rim of his coffee mug. He hopes his face says,  _seriously? This guy?_ From the way Forts kicks his shin under the table, he’s probably succeeding. 

“So,” Connor says after a few more minutes, oblivious to the fact that Jack and Forts are having a furious and silent kicking battle under the table. “You excited for practice?” 

… 

The thing is. 

Binding oath aside, Jack loves his teammates—always has, always will. That’s the whole point of having a team, as far as he’s concerned, because if they don’t have his back than fucking nobody will.  

He didn’t move away from home at fourteen to find a second family, but that’s what he got, and now he has Hanny and Matty and Larks and the rest of the boys, and he even has Fortchy, who he still gets to see every day, and life is pretty good. He’s playing back home in Boston, and he’s on a team that has a real shot at the championship, and next year he’ll be in the NHL, and he was supposed to do it all on his fucking own if only to prove that he could, but the thing is.  

McDavid is here now, and he’s as good as advertised, and if he helps them win a championship than so much the better.  

Hell, if he helps them win a championship, Jack might even forgive him for the draft.  

Maybe. He hasn’t decided yet. After all, McDavid could still fall down a flight of stairs before June. 

But right now, he’s wearing a Boston University practice jersey, and so is Jack.  

So. That’s the thing.  

… 

The guys chirp at McDavid in the room, just like they do at anyone else, but even after a few weeks of preseason practices, McDavid doesn’t really seem to want to chirp back. He’s a quiet kind of kid, awkward until he hits the ice, and it’s a week before their first game and Jack still hasn’t heard him speak a full sentence that didn’t involve hockey. Jack still has to press-gang him into eating with him and Fortchy and the others, whenever they happen to see him in the caf at the same time. 

Jack really fucking wants to like this guy. He really fucking wishes McDavid didn’t make it all so fucking hard.  

Gryzzy’s having a go at McDavid when Jack gets off the ice, last because it was his turn to pick up pucks. It’s all in good fun, probably. Jack hears the words ‘maple syrup,’ so it’s almost certainly—like usual—because McDavid is highly Canadian and doesn’t bother to hide it.  

But unlike Jack, when the guys take the piss out of him for being a masshole, which happens pretty regularly, McDavid doesn’t try to snipe back, or wrestle Gryzzy down, or drag one of the other guys into it. 

He just gets all red and kind of flustered and goes to take a shower and forgets his towel, which Jack takes after him because he’s a standup kinda guy.  

He also asks, “The fuck is wrong with you?” when he steps under the spray next to McDavid, because he’s a standup guy but he’s also an asshole and he doesn’t think those things have to be mutually exclusive. Also, if he can handle fifteen minutes of the guys poking at his acne and his hair, McDavid can handle a jab or two about riding moose to school or whatever else it is that Canadians do.  

McDavid mutters something else, seemingly to himself, and Jack shrugs it off, because, like. It’s not his business, really, how McDavid handles himself in the room, at the end of the day.  

He does walk McDavid back to his dorm after, though, because he’s already decided that they’re going to have to be fucking friends. He’s in it to win it, now, like he’s in it to win everything.  

McDavid doesn’t ask him to walk back, or anything. In fact, he looks a little irritated that Jack’s coming along, but that’s fine, because Jack’s a little irritated, too.  

McDavid lives in a different building than Jack does, and his roommate doesn’t play hockey. When McDavid opens the door to drop his gear bag off, the roommate is sitting in the dark with headphones in, typing furiously on his computer, and doesn’t even look over when Jack volunteers a cheerful, “hey, man.” 

“You can come in, I guess,” McDavid says softly after a few long moments of looking pointedly between Jack and the door. He says everything softly, so Jack doesn’t assign much significance to it.  

“Put your coat back on,” Jack says instead, “You’re coming to dinner with us.” 

McDavid blinks at him. “Who’s us?” He asks. 

“Me, Fortchy, Johnny Mac. Probably Diff and LaCouvee. Come on, does it matter? We’re eating together. We want you to come.” 

“We?” McDavid asks, but he shrugs his coat back on and follows Jack out and locks the door behind him, even though his roommate is still in.  

They make it three-quarters of the way to the dining hall in painful silence before Jack finally asks, “So are you shy, or are you just stuck up?” 

“What?” McDavid asks. 

Jack shrugs. “That’s what the guys want to know. You won’t talk to guys in the room, you try to leave and shut yourself in your room after practice, you don’t want to come out with us. So, like, what gives?” 

“I’m not,” McDavid says, sounding wounded.  

“Look,” Jack says, and stops walking. “I don’t like… care, or whatever. But you’re our teammate, you know? And that means something, at least to me. So if you want us to fuck off, we can do that, I guess, but that’s dumb as fuck and I think you should just get over yourself, even though Fortchy told me not to tell you that.” 

McDavid opens his mouth, closes it again. “I’ve never,” he says, and then starts over. “Growing up, I was always the youngest, you know? Like, by a lot. Nobody in middle school wants to be friends with someone three years younger.  And then I didn’t want to go for the CHL and it got weird with guys in Canada, because that was, like, almost unheard of, and then teams I ended up playing with to keep NCAA eligibility, I always took it too seriously because I knew I was going somewhere with it, you know? So I’ve never. I mean. I’ve never really had a team like this, before. I’ve never just been another guy on the team.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Jack says.  

McDavid flushes. “Sorry,” he says. “That was. A lot.” 

“Just, like,” Jack says, and scuffs his foot on the ground. “Just fucking lighten up, okay? They’re not fucking around with you to be mean. You’re on the team and the guys fucking want you there. You’re allowed to talk back. They’re just like… your dumb older brother, or something, trying to rile you up.” 

“I have a dumb older brother,” McDavid says, after a minute, “So. I guess I can handle that.” 

Jack elbows him and starts walking again. He really hopes they don’t have to re-have this conversation, because feelings, but when McDavid nudges him as they stand in line for pasta, Jack says warily, “What, dude?” 

“You’re really aggressive about everything,” McDavid says, “But, like. Thanks.” 

Jack is exactly that aggressive about everything. In the spirit of the occasion, he slugs Connor in the arm and then pulls him into a side hug by the neck and holds him there, even when he squirms to get away. 

“I’m gonna be the best fucking friend you ever had,” he says. 


	2. OCTOBER

“I thought we were friends,” Jack says morosely, and throws his sweaty practice jersey over Connor’s head.

“I’m seventeen!” Connor squawks, and throws the jersey back.

“So’s Eichs,” Fortchy says. 

“Not for long,” Jack says, and points at Connor. “That’s the point. It’s my birthday. And I want to celebrate with my friends. So get a fake, get a grip, and say you’ll come out with us.”

“I can’t get a fake,” Connor says. “I’m Canadian. I don’t have a U.S. license.”

“Yeah,” Jack says drily, and rolls his eyes. “That’s the point of it being fake. Dude. Come on, I know a guy.”

…

Jack’s guy is Noah Hanifin. Actually, Jack’s guy is Noah’s guy, and is the same guy who sells them both weed, but he produces a real-enough looking fake when Jack asks. Real enough to fool the bouncers at Jack’s local, anyway, who obviously know his crew is underage and also obviously don’t care. 

“David O’Connor?” Connor says when Jack hands it over, outside the dive bar. It’s not that chilly yet, but Connor’s wearing a hat and scarf already. So much for Canadians being immune to the cold, or whatever. “Really?”

“I left your birthday the same,” Jack says, “So you’ll remember if they ask. Happy birthday, baby!”

“It’s your birthday,” Connor grumbles, and he blushes so hard when the bouncer glances half-heartedly at the ID that Jack thinks for half a second that he’s going to get them all busted. 

“You’re right, it is my birthday,” Jack says, and slings his arm around Connor’s neck. “I can, like, get drafted and buy cigarettes and vote. And drink, since I was born in ’93, according to this. So buy me a drink, ‘David.’”

…

Connor being willing to occasionally hoist himself down from his Canadian-martyr-cross and nurse a beer with the rest of the guys goes a long way towards helping his reputation as a fucking weirdo. 

Jack happily claims full credit for this, when Gryzzy asks, and even manages a gruff, "thanks, Coach," when Quinn pulls him aside after practice and tells Jack he's showing real leadership potential, looking out for his teammates like that. 

Not that his work is done, not by any means. 

They're out at one of the locals, Wednesday night because they play games on the weekends and they're in college anyway, so fuck it. The place is packed, because everyone else is in college, too, so fuck it. 

Jack's chatting up an absolutely stacked brunette, and Connor is stumbling through something resembling conversation with her marginally less-hot friend, and things are going well. Like, this girl has her hand in the back pocket of Jack's jeans, and he's about thirty seconds from texting Johnny Mac to get him to clear out of the room, and then the girl pulls away, slightly, and Jack turns to see her friend shooting her very clear help-get-me-out-of-here girl vibes. Jack has an older sister. He knows the signs. 

"Connor," he says, alarmed, and then reaches over to backhand him in the shoulder. "Are you talking about the powerplay?"

Connor's mouth snaps shut guiltily, and any other time,  _literally_ any other time, Jack would be interested in hearing his ideas, but. This girl is a total smokeshow. Plus, they’re undefeated on the season so far.

"Don't talk about the powerplay," he says.

So, like. His work is very much not done. 

…

There are many things that Jack is looking forward to about playing in the NHL: the money, the girls, the fucking hockey. Not having to share a prison-cell-sized room with Johnny Mac, who is a beauty but snores like a chainsaw. 

They're bumping up towards Maine on a Friday afternoon. Jack is very much looking forward to no longer taking bus rides up and down New England. 

Also? Not having to pretend to care about this government essay. 

"Ughhhhhhhhhhhh," says Jack succinctly, and throws his head back. 

Forts pokes his head up from the seat in front of him and says a little disdainfully, "Eichs, you're doing Gen Ed."

This is true, mostly because Jack's a one-and-done and doesn't try too hard to hide that, because what's the point? 

Connor looks up from across the aisle, says, "what are you working on?"

Connor is taking pre-med courses, mostly because he's fucking psychotic, and seems to have taken the NCAA’s ‘putting the student in student athlete’ bullshit to heart. 

"Electoral college," Jack says. Connor, who is not even an American, perks up. 

"Do you want me to proofread it? I can, if you want."

Jack does not want, but his other option is to actually write out the conclusion, so he hands it over and opens Candy Crush, because going on Tinder on a bus full of teammates is a recipe for endless chirping. 

"Oh boy," Fortchy says, after Jack has successfully berated him into sending Jack more lives, and then Jack's essay is back under his nose, looking more or less like someone bled all over it.

"What the fuck?" Jack says. 

Forts eyes him carefully, chin on the back of the bus seat. Because, like. Jack has never professed to be anything like book smart, but this is a little much to take, even for him. Even his own name has been scribbled out and penned over in Connor's neat handwriting. 

"It's really good," Connor says, "really. Just some little stuff, grammar and stuff, but the content, that was great. You made some really good points."

"Oh, please," Jack says, smarting, and then looks at Fortchy. "Guess Mr. Benjamin was right, Forts."

"Old Benny? Fuck him," Fortchy says, and reaches out and pats the top of Jack's head. 

"Who's Mr. Benjamin?" Connor asks. 

"One of our high school teachers," Forts whispers, as though Jack won't be able to hear him, "he told our whole class that Jack was as dumb as a bag of rocks."

"To be fair," Jack says a little glumly, even as he aims a kick at Forts through the back of the bus seat in front of him, "he didn't actually say that to my face."

"He said it to mine," Forts says. “Plus, we went to public school. In Michigan. The bar wasn’t that high.”

"Also to be fair," Jack finishes, and kicks him again. He waves his essay at Connor, "he's right, apparently." 

Connor's face does something weird and pinched. "No, he's not. You're not dumb, Jack. And besides, that's a really shitty thing for a teacher to say."

"Well," Jack says, nose still in his paper, though he can feel his cheeks pinking up. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't need to be smart. That's the whole point of this." He gestures to the bus around them, a little lamely. 

"You are smart," Connor says. Fortchy's still peering over the seatback at them, eyes moving like he's watching a ping-pong game. "I didn't lie to you before. It's a good paper, you just have crappy handwriting. And spelling, but everybody has spellcheck now, anyway. And besides, you're, like, hockey smart. And people smart. That's more important."

"Also," Forts says, and reaches down to nudge at one of the many red blots on Jack's scribbled essay, "you spelled rumor right. Connor's Canadian English fucked you there."

Connor reaches over and snatches the paper back from Jack's hands, crosses out his correction and re-writes Jack's spelling above it. "See?" He says, like that proves anything. "Told you."

…

Jack gets a B on the paper, which is his yearly high. He wasn't lying before, when he said he doesn't care much about school or his grades, much to his mother's chagrin, but he can't deny that it feels kind of good, regardless. His professor wrote across the top of the paper, "good work," and for a guy who spent most of his childhood having his teachers phone home because they thought he was dyslexic or distracted, lazy or just plain stupid, it's an unusual academic high. 

He doesn't tell Connor, because, like. He would probably take credit, or something.

But Johnny Mac tells him anyway, because Jack leaves the graded essay lying obviously around their room for a few days, and Jack's not mad when Connor buys him a shot for it, or anything. 

…

“Hey,” Connor says into his throat at the bar later, half-drunk off of a vodka and water, “Jacko. Jack.”

“What?” Jack yells back over the music. There’s a girl he’s eyeing across the room, but Gryzzy is already texting him to move onto the next bar and Connor’s two sheets to the wind and Jack kind of wants to get him drunker on their captain’s dime. 

“You want me to read your English paper?” Connor shouts back. Jack rolls his eyes, and texts Gryz,  _fine I'll come but I'm bringing boy wonder_ _and ur paying._

“Calm down, prep school,” Jack says. “It’s Saturday night, and you should not be thinking about my English paper.”

Connor shrugs. His lips are very pink, and his eyes are getting glazed enough that soon he’ll stop talking about homework, hopefully. This kid takes everything so goddamn serious. It’s Jack’s duty, like, to humanity, to get him to loosen up a little.

_Fortchy?_ Gryzzy asks, like there's more than one prodigy in need of a stiff drink on their team.

“Alright, McJesus,” Jack says, and fishes around for his coat. “Let’s go meet the boys.”

_No, dumbass,_ he texts back.  _Connor Mac._

...

Here's the thing about Connor McDavid: for a guy who is so mind-blowingly good at hockey, he has a disturbing lack of other life skills. As smart as he is in class, he constantly forgets his notebook or his pen or his textbook; he ruined one of Gryzzy's mom's good pans because he left water on to boil for two hours; he leaves his cell phone at every other bar they go to for Thirsty Thursday.

In fact, he makes Jack look like a functioning adult with his shit mostly together. So, like. Jack keeps letting him tear into his papers and his take-home quizzes and his parts of group projects, because he also pretty routinely jogs across campus to let Connor into his dorm when he locks himself out and Jack was the only one who thought to make Connor get a spare key made, the second time it happened.

It all sort of balances out, in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay boys and girls and babes, I'm aiming for Wednesdays for this dumb thing. Don't hold me to that & also pray for me.


	3. NOVEMBER

It’s a tied game in BC’s barn when Connor McDavid tries to punch Hanny in the face. 

The crowd is—obviously—against them. When Connor takes the first half-hearted swing, they roar. A linesman is already skating over, but Jack gets there first. Connor’s as tall as he is and spitting mad, but Jack’s strong enough that he skates Connor away before anything can escalate. 

He didn’t drop his gloves, so all he gets is a roughing. Hanny’s grinning from the other bench, and Jack can see it; it makes him grit his teeth. He’s been jawing all night—they all have—but he doesn’t know what Hanny would have said to get under Connor’s skin like that. As intense as Connor Mac can be during a game, Jack’s never seen him try to fight before.

Maybe because from the looks of things, he’s shitty at it. 

They kill the penalty off, Jack’s heart in his throat on a close shot. They’ve been on the same line for the last ten minutes, him and Connor, the nuclear option. He really doesn’t fucking want to lose the first game against BC that he’s played, not with his parents here, not against Hanny. He’s wicked pissed at Connor, suddenly, that he would take that chance, and the rest of the team is, too, restless waiting to go over the boards. 

“Fucking focus,” he grits out, when Connor sits heavily next to him.

“He said—"

“I don’t fucking care, Connor. He runs his mouth, that’s what he does. Landing you in the box, that’s the whole point. Shake it off. Look at the clock.”

There’s three minutes left. 

“Do you know how much damage we can do in three minutes?” Jack asks him. 

“Yeah,” Connor says, sullen. “I get it, okay? I fucking know.”

“Then fucking act like it,” Jack snaps back. “Do not blow this. Put it on my stick, you fucking hear me? Right on my stick.”

“McDavid,” Coach bellows behind him, and they go over the boards in sync. Hanny’s out again, too; Jack catches the flash of his white smile.

“Yeah, fuck you, bud,” Jack says, and then McDavid put it right on his stick. 

…

Connor gets read the riot act by coach while Jack’s doing his post-game media—the only time all season reporters have been more interested in him than McDavid, mostly because they’re playing BC and they keep asking Jack about Hanny and Michigan and why he chose BU and, yeah, McDavid, too. He tolerates it, because they won and he scored the GWG. He can tell, by the time that he gets back to the room, still sweaty and flushed, that Connor’s already been shouted down. 

It's what he looked like on the ice earlier, lanky and irate—like an angry labrador puppy. And now, he looks like a scolded one.  

“Sorry,” he says, as soon as he sees Jack. 

Jack shrugs. “We won,” he says. “Still. All you’d do is, like, break your hand on his cheekbones, or something, and then where would we be?”

Connor looks away, mouth twisting. “His cheekbones,” he repeats, and then, louder, “at least if I broke my hand, I'd miss World Juniors. You’d like that, I bet.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Jack says, but mildly. “You’d also miss most of our season, dumbass. Plus, I want to beat you fair and square.”

Connor’s quiet, for a moment. It’s there, obvious to everyone, that in a month they’re going to be across the ice from each other, but they haven’t talked about it. 

“Sorry,” Connor says again, finally. “He was... talking shit, is all. About you, mostly.”

Jack laughs a little. “Yeah, obviously. I know you don’t get the Boston thing, but. This game was a big deal, to us. Like, a really big deal. My dad’s had it circled on his calendar since June. Plus, Hanny and I have known each other forever. We’re going to go kiss and make up and in five minutes everything will be fine.”

“Sure,” Connor says, and stands a little slowly, like he’s sore or maybe just tired. Jack feels that, down to his bones. “I’m gonna go shower. You go kiss Noah Hanifin.”

He pulls his jersey over his head, hair standing up in tufts that Jack kind of wants to pet down. 

“Hey, Fido,” Jack says, and wrestles Connor into his chest, even though they both smell horrible, “thanks for defending my honor, anyway. And thanks, for putting it right on my stick.”

…

Hanny’s propped up against the wall when Jack leaves the locker room, hair wet. Jack’s family is out there, too, somewhere, but they won’t expect him yet. 

“Hey, man,” Jack says, and Hanny puts his phone in his pocket and straightens up.

“Hey,” Hanny says, and then a little grudgingly, “good game.”

They’d agreed to meet like this, beforehand. Jack’s not sure he would have shown up, had things gone the other way. 

“How’s your bodyguard,” Hanny continues, when Jack shrugs. 

He barks out a laugh. “Fine, Jesus. What did you say, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Hanny says, and looks away. “It doesn’t matter. Someone needs to teach that kid how to throw a punch, if he’s going to try.”

“Yeah, noted goon Connor McDavid,” Jack says drily. “All those years on the mean streets of Newmarket.”

Hanny laughs at him, but when he feints a jab at Jack’s stomach, Jack puts him in a headlock easily. “How was Thanksgiving, anyway,” Noah says smugly, from somewhere in the region of Jack’s armpit.

“Fine, fuck you very much,” Jack says, and flushes, and drops him. Noah smirks a particularly irritating smirk at him, smoothing back down his hair. “Whatever, why do you care? He pouted on Canadian Thanksgiving and he would have, like, been here alone in the dorms and it would have been pathetic. I threatened to make him eat on the porch if he kept calling it ‘American’ Thanksgiving, anyway. He was on turkey probation.”

“Yeah, right,” Hanny says. “I bet your mom likes him more than she likes you.”

“Whatever,” Jack says, and shoves him, because his mom probably does like Connor better. He offered to do all their dishes and admired all of the embarrassing baby pictures of Jack on the wall that Jack had told his parents to take down and then his sister had put back up. 

“So,” Hanny says, and then his gaze locks on something over Jack’s shoulder. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come out tonight, but.” He nods, and Jack glances back to see Connor approaching them, jaw set and eyes uncertain. 

“Uh,” Jack says, “yeah, we’ll. I’ll probably head out with the boys, when I’ve seen my parents. Victory celebration.”

Hanny’s mouth twists, but he just nods. “Wouldn’t want to make him jealous again,” he says under his breath, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up, Hanny. That’s not what this is, and you know it.”

“Sure,” he says, and then loud enough for Connor to hear where he’s pulled up even with them, “call me if you get bored tonight. Or lonely.”

“Dude,” Jack says, but he lets Hanny pull him into a hug anyway, longer and harder than Jack expects.

“Hey,” Hanny says, quiet enough that Jack knows it’s not for Connor, this time. “Just. Be careful, okay, Eichs?”

“Sure,” Jack says, even though he’s not sure he knows what Hanny means. He can guess, but. “See you in Toronto, bud.”

…

They wind up at some frat party, Alpha Theta Something. Word’s gotten around about their win over BC—Johnny Mac’s already got someone in his lap and Fortchy is dancing on a coffee table with a sorority girl. Connor won’t do a keg stand, so he’s less drunk than Jack. Still drunk enough to be leaning against him heavily while they wait their turn for the pong table, even though Jack’s not feeling that stable himself at the moment. 

They’re undefeated against their own team as pong partners. Connor’s definitely the weaker of the two of them—he leaves Jack to pick up the slack, which is a refreshing change of pace, even though he has an uncanny knack for hitting the rebuttal shots. 

“Hey,” Connor tells him, just as the song flips over to Drake. “I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“I know, bud,” Jack says. “You already said. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Connor insists, and struggles up straighter, rounding on Jack and stumbling in a little, hands on Jack’s hips for stability. “I got mad, and I shouldn’t.”

“I get mad at Hanny all the time," Jack tells him, “just don’t want you to get thrown out of a game for doing something dumb, is all.”

Connor’s still wearing the hat that Jack had started the night with. He keeps licking his lips. “It wasn’t dumb, Jacko. It was just...”

“He talks shit all the time, babe,” Jack says, and laughs a little. “Like I said earlier. That’s what he—that's what we do, you know? Yeah, he’s an asshole, but so am I. That’s why we get along.”

“You’re not,” Connor frowns. “And that’s what I... never mind. I just wanted to tell him, is all.”

“Tell him what,” Jack says, just as a cheer picks up from the living room, which probably means that someone has just done something too stupid for even this crowd to ignore. He really hopes it’s one of the brothers and not one of his teammates, but Diff’s here, so all bets are off. 

“Tell him,” Connor repeats, listing in. He’s so drunk—they both are. He has his lips on Jack’s jaw to be heard in the crowd. Jack’s got his arms around his waist, half because he’s got nothing else to do with his hands. They’re standing too close for this crowd, but everybody here knows how the team is. How they get. They won’t even notice. “Tell him that I’m Team Jack.”

“Team Jack? What is that, like a book club?”

“No, just,” Connor pulls back, frustrated. The table is clearing, anyway. “I just wanted him to know, is all. The other shit doesn’t matter. I’m Team Jack.”

“Eichs,” someone bellows, “you’re up.”

“Baby,” Jack says, “You can be whatever team you want. You already won me a hockey game. How ‘bout you win me a pong game, too, and we call it even.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you: Connor McDavid broke his hand in his draft year
> 
> me, an intellectual: Not if he got dragged away by the scruff of his neck
> 
> (would he have gotten kicked out of an NCAA game for throwing fists? Probably! Do I care? ....... probably not)
> 
> I am L I V I N G for the happy Jack content from the past few days!! Nothing but respect for my captain!!


	4. DECEMBER

_Are you still up?_

_Um, yeah,_ Jack replies.  _It’s_ _like_ _830, dude._

A beat, and then,  _what are you doing?_

_Watching Hanny lose at Call of Duty. Again. why, what are you doing?_

_Trying to sleep,_  Connor sends,  _but_ _strome_ _is singing in the shower._

“Oh my God,” Jack says out loud, just as Hanny gets his head blown off and swears, loudly. 

_And what would u be doing if I was there ;)_

_What? Why would you be here?_

“Oh my God,” Jack says again.

This time Hanny turns and snaps, “what,” as if it’s Jack’s fault that he keeps dying. 

“Nothing, dude,” Jack says, and sends Connor back,  _of course u would miss a sexting joke, Mac. Meet in the hallway? Five min?_

_K,_ Connor says, and Jack waits three seconds before he says, “I’m going to get ice.”

“What?” Hanny says, distracted, fingers already working at the buttons.

“Nothing,” Jack says. “There’s someone behind you, by the way.”

…

Connor’s wearing a team Canada sweatshirt when he slips out of his room, which. There’s not any real reason that they can’t meet right now, but it does make Jack feel a little more paranoid about the whole thing. 

“Hi,” Connor says, and Jack rolls his eyes.

“You seriously couldn’t ditch the maple leaf for a night?”

“It’s all I brought, Jack. You're wearing red too.”

“Yeah, but mine says ‘Terriers’ on the chest.”

“I know,” Connor says, “That’s my shirt. See the number 97 on the sleeve?”

“Whatever,” Jack says. They’re all in the same hotel, which makes going to the lobby a pretty fucking bad idea, but standing here in the hallway isn’t any better, even if it’s maybe more void of media. “What’s up, man? Shouldn’t you be singing kumbaya with your fellow Canucks?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, “Is this weird?” 

“I mean,” Jack says. They flew up together, but they haven’t really seen each other since they got to the hotel. This is not exactly a forum for international friendship. “I feel like Benedict Arnold, but. That’s fine. Oh, sorry, do you know who he is? He was American, so.”

“Haha,” Connor says. “You wrote your midterm about him, you dick.”

He keeps looking at his feet, away from Jack. He doesn’t get nervous really, Jack knows, but he gets. In his head, sometimes. Especially before big games. They both play tomorrow, but not against each other. Not yet. 

“You okay?” Jack says, finally, when Connor doesn’t say anything else.

“Yeah,” Connor says, but not that firmly. 

“Dude,” Jack says, and slides down the wall, sitting. Connor sits down across from him after a moment, legs in the gap between Jack’s. 

“It’s just weird, I guess,” Connor says. "Like, it’s fine, but I'm used to our team. It’s weird to be here and see you here and not be teammates. And it’s weird to be here and have all the other guys be CHL guys and not be, like, part of that, I guess.”

“I mean,” Jack says, and then stalls out. “Do you, like. Regret not doing that? The CHL thing?”

“No,” Connor says. “It’s just. Different.”

Jack knows—has known—that Connor made headlines last spring for more reasons than just signing a contract. He saw the think pieces. He knows that people were disappointed in Connor, but he’s never asked about it, partly because they weren’t friends at the time and partly because it seems like a weird thing to say, now. 

“That’s why I did it, though,” Connor continues after a moment. “I mean. Like, my agent was telling me how bad it would be for my career, and I was like, fourteen. Why the fuck would I care about my career? I just wanted to have, like, a normal experience for once. I wanted to get to go to college like my brother did. I had an agent at fourteen, you know? I knew that things weren’t going to be normal forever, and I want to play hockey so bad, but I just wanted one normal year. I just wanted to get to go to frat parties and be late for class and, I don’t know. Dumb stuff. Worry about the food in the dining hall.”

“To be fair,” Jack says. “The food is pretty terrible.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “It’s just weird for them, I think. Because they had to do the CHL thing to have a shot and I can't say out loud when people ask me why I chose college, that it’s because I didn’t have to do that.”

“That does make you sound like a total dick,” Jack concedes, and Connor blushes.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Jack says, “we’re going to win the championship and they can suck my dick. And then we’re going to the NHL and they can suck my dick again.”

“I’m going to tell them that at team meeting tomorrow,” Connor says. “‘Captain America says that you should all suck his dick.’”

“Fuck you,” Jack says easily, “what would your agent say, using language like that.”

“Nothing worse than he said when I signed with BU, probably,” Connor says, and kicks out. Jack traps Connor’s feet with his ankles and laughs when Connor can’t break free.

“Life’s hard, bud. My parents wanted me to go to BC. Disappointment all around.”

“You could have played with Noah, though,” Connor says, abruptly quiet. 

“I’d rather beat him,” Jack says. “Except, you know. This tournament.” Down the hall, a door opens and slams shut. Jack doesn’t recognize the guy from this distance, but he recognizes the double-take. Connor lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave, grimaces.

“That’s going to go over well tomorrow,” he says.

“You act like you’re cheating or something,” Jack replies, even though he feels it, too. If one of his teammates were to walk out and see him sitting with Connor, that’s probably wouldn’t go great, either. 

Connor shrugs. “My agent told me this tournament would be good practice, for next year,” he says. “I mean, since I’m a captain and it’s my draft year and things are more intense this time around with the media. Because I’m getting used to being watched all the time and getting used to the pressure, and whatever. I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Jack says. “If they’re being mean to you, I have no problem kicking some Canadian ass. It would be my absolute pleasure and joy.”

“They’re not being mean, Jacko, this isn’t grade two.”

“I will totally kick their asses even if they aren’t being mean to you.”

“You know I can’t let you do that,” Connor says, but at least he’s smiling a little, now. 

“We could still leave, you know,” Jack says. “Run away, back to Boston. Fortchy says they’re having a kick-ass New Year’s Eve party. His resolution is to ‘live in the moment,’ which I know from experience means that he’s going to make out with whoever is standing next to him at the stroke of midnight. My resolution is to win a gold medal, by the way.”

“That’s not a resolution,” Connor says, ignoring the jab. "A resolution is supposed to be, like, something that you can work to make happen, Jack. An achievable goal. Not a fantasy.”

“I will put you in a choke-hold in this hallway,” Jack warns. “Fine. What’s your resolution then, since you’re an expert?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, but he’s flushed again. “I’ve never made one before.”

“It doesn’t have to be, like, get in shape or stop eating sugar or whatever,” Jack says. “Okay, how about. Instead of a resolution, we each have one thing we want to do next year, and then we do it. No hockey allowed. Just a normal person thing that we want to do before we get drafted, and then we do it together.” 

“Still not a resolution.”

“Shake on it, Connor Mac,” Jack says, and holds his hand out. “You want to be normal, I’ll fucking make it happen.”

“Fine,” Connor says, grinning, and reaches out to take Jack’s hand. “I better get back now, for real.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and uses Connor’s grip to leverage himself off of the floor. “I have to be well-rested to lead my team to a championship, you know.”

“You wish,” Connor says, and rolls his eyes, but he goes easily enough when Jack tugs him in for a quick hug. Tomorrow, they can pretend like they don’t know each other again. 

“Hey,” Jack says, “if you would have gone to the CHL, Dylan Strome would probably have been your best friend. That would have been the real tragedy.”

…

“Thanks for the ice,” Hanny says drily, when Jack cards back into their room. “You left the bucket on the counter, dumbass.”

“Fuck off,” Jack says, and when he pulls his shirt off to climb under the covers he hurls it at Noah’s face. Hanny turns the number on the back to face Jack, pointed and a little disdainful. 

“We have to play them in three days, Eichs,” he says.

“I fucking know, Hanny, fuck off,” Jack says, and hits the light before he lies down. “You know I'm all in for this team. You fucking know I am.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I fucking know I told you to be careful, a month ago, and now you’re fucking rendezvous-ing with the captain of the Canadian team the night before the tournament starts.”

“I told you then,” Jack says, “there’s nothing going on with us.”

“Is that what you thought I meant?”

There’s rustling, and when Jack’s eyes adjust to the dark, he can see that Hanny’s turned to look at him across the room. “Yeah, obviously. What else is there?”

“I don’t care if you’re... whatever,” Hanny says.

“We’re not.”

“Okay, like I said, whatever. I meant, like. He’s not going to be your teammate forever, Jack.”

Hanny doesn’t, like, say his name that often. Even if his tone wasn’t so grave, Jack would know that Hanny was serious, just from that alone. 

“I meant, like,” he says again. “I know that he’s your boy right now, or whatever. I know that you’re good at making people your friends. But in a few months, it’s still going to be him and you and it won’t matter that you used to be buddies. I can tell you right fucking now that his agent or his new GM or whoever isn’t going to care if you ate lunch with him in college when he’s getting drafted first overall and you’re getting shafted because of it. Okay? So I just. I love you, man, and I want you to be careful. Because at the end of the line, you deserve to have people looking out for you, too. And you’re allowed to look out for yourself, you know?”

Jack swallows, hard. “Yeah, bud,” he says, and rolls over to face the wall. “I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI TECHNICALLY still Wednesday where I am :/ sorry I am the #worst
> 
> Things I have been thinking about a lot this week: The karen kilgariff tweet that goes "in times like these it's comforting to thinkg how much that bro who came up with bros before hos deeply loved his bros" so do with that what you will.
> 
> For the record: Jack kisses his teammates on the head when they score and THAT'S CANON BABY


	5. JANUARY

Jack is more than disappointed, which is what he told the media earlier. He’s more than ashamed, more than miserable.

Jack is aching. He's a black hole of heartbreak—wounded. 

They’re not all here. Not all of them would fit here, in his and Hanny’s room, sprawled across their two beds, but. Most of them are. The core of them are, the same boys that used to sprawl like this across beds in Michigan and laugh and chirp and promise each other that they’d make it. 

But they haven’t, made it. 

Someone left the bathroom light on, and the TV’s flickering a Law and Order rerun on mute into the dark room that nobody’s watching, and nobody’s talking, and certainly nobody’s laughing. They’re together, which helps, some. Not a lot. Nothing would, really, after. After that. 

“Hey,” Thatch says, where his head is pillowed on Jack’s thigh. He speaks quietly enough that nobody else looks over or up from their phone, even in the hush of the room. His cheeks look a little wet, face a little tender. Hayds is curled up against his back, eyes open and unfocused. “I’m sorry,” Thatch says. “I’m sorry, Eichs.” 

When Jack swallows, his throat clicks, loud. He was their captain, and they trusted him, and he failed them. He cards his fingers through Thatch’s hair. “You did everything right, babe,” he says. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry, that I let you down. That we couldn’t. That we couldn’t do it for you.”

“Hey,” Hanny says. Jack’s phone has been buzzing all night, and he hasn’t looked at it yet. He can’t face any of it, yet. “Eichs, it’s your boy.”

He doesn’t know what Connor would be saying, right now. He doesn’t want to know. Connor should be off with his boys, anyway, celebrating. 

“I can’t,” Jack says.

“He’s texted like five times.”

“Hanny,” Jack says, and his throat burns. “I  _can’t.”_

Hanny regards him for a moment, then says, “okay.” He knows Jack’s passcode, types something out.

“What did you say?” Jack asks, after Hanny’s turned his phone facedown.

“Nothing bad, just. Whatever. That you’d talk to him later.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, soft. His hand is still in Thatch’s hair, and he’s pretty sure that Hayds has drifted off, now, and Matts over on the other bed, head lolling and phone still in his hand. 

“Yeah,” Hanny says, and leans his shoulder into Jack’s, takes a deep breath. “Hey,” he says. “You want to make out a little bit? Just to feel better?”

He ghosts a smile, and Jack echoes it, which. He shouldn’t. It still feels too raw. It also feels like the kind of thing they’ve said to each other a thousand times, a joke worn-in and familiar. Like the kind of thing that used to happen a year ago or two years ago, before it was anyone’s draft year or an international stage or a rivalry on the line and back when they were just dumb kids stealing Whiter’s billet parent’s vodka and buying shitty weed and sprawling out just like this, together, chirpy and cocky and loose, because Larks got affectionately-sloppy drunk and Fortchy always wanted to sit on somebody’s lap and because it felt good, to have someone there, pressed against you and understanding. It feels like a throwback. Like nothing’s changed; like they’re still those boys.

They aren’t, but Jack’s willing to play along, if Hanny is. “Nah,” he says, and tips his head over to lean on Hanny’s shoulder where he’s slouched against the headboard. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Hanny shrugs. "Open invitation,” he says, still smiling a little.

Jack’s phone buzzes again on the nightstand, and neither of them reach out for it.

“Love you, man,” Jack says. Hanny squeezes his thigh.

“Yeah,” he says.

…

Jack and Connor meet at the gate for their flight back to Boston. Hanny and Thatch and the rest of the Boston kids caught an earlier flight this morning, which Jack very much wishes at the moment that he was on. 

Connor’s hungover, quiet and pale. He’s not wearing his medal, of course, but he’s wearing his team Canada jacket. He keeps going on Instagram and liking photos of himself draped over Dylan Strome, holding up his finger and grinning and wearing someone else’s hat backwards. He’s gained, like, five thousand followers overnight and has followed exactly 20 people back, all of whom are probably also boarding planes in various states of intoxication, and all of whom are probably also wearing team Canada jackets.

Jack is not hungover, but his eyes are equally swollen. 

It’s a very quiet flight.

…

Jack pretty successfully avoids him, back on campus. None of their classes are together and practice doesn’t require a great deal of talking and Fortchy is pretty willing to sit between them whenever Connor makes it to the dining hall, and things aren’t great, but. Jack’s dealing.

He’s dealing.

That's what he tells Gryzzy, when he gets pulled aside after practice the day they get back on the ice. Jack loves Gryzzy, and he likes that Gryzzy seems to get him, that when he says, “you going to be okay, kiddo? Beanpot’s in less than a month,” he just nods when Jack says that he’s dealing. Accepts that it’s pretty much all that he can do, right now, is deal. 

Jack’s good at compartmentalizing—he has to be. He knows that the kid that’s on his line this week might be across the ice the next. He’s got practice with that. When they play BC, it’s not Hanny across the ice to him. It’s just another defenseman to beat.

When they played Canada, it wasn’t Connor across the ice then, either—just another player, another captain, another measuring stick to hold himself up against.

But it’s different with Connor, now, somehow. Something about Connor is bigger than it has been before, and Jack can’t put him back where he belongs, can’t fit him back onto his mental team.

Maybe because he’d measured himself up against Connor, and he’d failed. And now it’s not Connor next to him on the ice—now it’s just the kid who beat him.

Again.

…

“Hey, Jack!”

_Fuck,_ Jack thinks, and very seriously considers just bolting into the library, but Connor’s already on him, hand on his elbow. Smiling at him. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I thought you’d probably be here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, and scuffs his foot on the sidewalk. It’s not very satisfying, because there’s snow on the ground, but it saves him having to look up at Connor. “You found me. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really,” Connor says. He looks puzzled. Jack so very much does not want to be having this conversation. “I just. Have you, um. Have you been avoiding me, or something?”   

“Yeah, kinda,” Jack says.

“Because of World Juniors?” He sounds puzzled, too, which. Should not send a pang through Jack’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Jack says again, “kinda.”

Connor doesn’t look puzzled anymore. He looks... hurt, maybe.

“Look,” Jack says, “I just. I need some time, okay? Like, everything’s fine and everything’s going to be fine. It’s just, like, it hasn’t even been a week yet. I’m dealing. I just need some time.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what does that mean?’ It means, I don’t know, I just need some time. Like, maybe don’t follow me to the library right now, okay?”

“I didn’t follow you to the library to make you feel bad,” Connor says. His cheeks are pinking, and it’s cold outside, but Jack doesn’t think it has much to do with that. He refuses to feel bad that Connor’s hurt that Jack needs a few days to un-traumatize. It’s not his job right now, to look after Connor’s feelings. He’s got more than enough fucking feelings on his plate at the moment. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mac, okay? All I’m saying is that I kind of don’t want to deal with this for a few days. Plus, I’ve got like two tests next week and we’re playing a back-to-back this weekend. I’ve got shit going on, and I can’t—”

“You can’t be my friend, is what you’re saying. Because I beat you at hockey.”

It twists in his gut, low and hot. He shrugs. “That’s what you told Sportsnet, isn’t it? That we’re not friends out there?”

“That’s not fair,” Connor says. “That’s the kind of shit that we all say, and you know it. It doesn’t mean anything off the ice. You don’t just get to pick when you’re friends with someone because you’re mad that they beat you. That’s pretty fucking immature, Jack.”

“Fuck you, it’s not about picking when to be your friend. It’s about trying to get some goddamned space from it all, and if you really need me to hold your hand every fucking second around here, then I’m not the childish one.”

He’s raising his voice now, against his own better judgement. People are looking as they pass.

“You’re the one blaming me,” Connor says. He keeps his voice low and tight, like he’s aware of the people, too. He probably is. He’s always so goddamn aware of what people think of him, of how they’re looking at him, of what he says. It drives Jack so fucking crazy. “When it’s not my fault that you—” 

He breaks off the sentence, but Jack knows what he was going to say.  _It’s not my fault that you lost._

Jack can feel his cheeks burning, too. There’s a sick anger in his gut, the kind that means his gloves would be off if he were on the ice. “You know,” he says, carefully, “Noah said that I should be careful being friends with you. That you would only look out for yourself.”

Jack watches it land—Connor’s mouth drops open a fraction and he takes half a step back. He looks sick, which is how Jack feels. “Yeah, well,” he says, after a moment. When he’s collected himself. “Fuck Noah Hanifin.”

“No, fuck you, McDavid. At least he has my back, whether or not we’re wearing the same fucking jersey.”

Connor starts to say something else, but Jack’s already stomping across the grass, beelining back to his dorm even though he’s got a class in an hour that he can’t really afford to miss and he’s wearing tennis shoes in half a foot of snow. 

…

So, yeah. He’s dealing.

…

They eke out a win on Saturday, which is pretty fucking remarkable considering that Jack and Connor spend most of the third period on a line together and also not speaking to each other.

It’s pretty frustrating, all things considered, that Connor can flat-out ignore Jack and can also still put a pass right on Jack’s stick when he wants to. 

...

The Sigs are throwing a party, which seems like, if nothing else, a great place to get fucking plastered. 

Jack gets about eight drinks deep before he can’t help draping himself over LaCouvee and shouting at him, “where’s the other Connor?”

“Uh,” LaCouvee says. Fortchy takes a large drink of whatever jungle juice is in his cup and looks away, which could mean that they didn’t invite Connor because they knew Jack was coming, or could mean that Connor knew Jack was coming and told them he didn’t want to come. Or, it could mean nothing, but Jack’s very drunk and it feels very significant. 

“Studying," Diff says, finally.

“Hey,” a girl shouts, and leans down to put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. She’s wicked stacked, wearing a ballcap backwards and a little tank top even though it’s January and she flashes a smile at him. “The pong table’s open and they told me you’re the best shot here. Want a go?”

“Uh,” Jack says, over the music. “I can’t play pong with you. I’m so sorry, you’re so hot, but I can't play pong with you.”

“I’ll play,” Diff says, bolting upright.

“I’m so sorry,” Jack says again. “It’s just, I have a pong partner and I promised him I wouldn’t, you know?”

“Sure,” she says easily enough, “I’ll play with your boy, here.”

Diff follows her off, starry-eyed. LaCouvee flicks him in the back of the neck, which seems uncalled for, but then he kisses Jack there, too, so that’s okay. “You’re so fucking dumb, Eichs,” he says fondly. 

“I promised!” Jack says. “We’re undefeated and I promised him I wouldn’t play with anyone else because it might jinx us. He’s my  _pong partner_ , dude.”

“A bond more sacred than marriage,” Fortchy agrees.

“Oh my god,” Jack says. “I need to call him. I need to call Connor right now. Where’s my phone.”

“In your pocket,” LaCouvee says, just as Forts says, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s a great idea,” Jack tells him. He feels, like, still kinda fucked up about what happened in Canada. He also feels kinda fucked up about what happened with Connor, in front of the library, and they can still fight if Connor wants but mostly Jack wants him to come play beer pong. Connor’s phone goes through to voicemail, but Jack tries him again. And again.

“What, Jack,” Connor says, when he picks up the third time. He sounds irritated, which seems unfair, because Jack’s calling to invite him to a party.

“Connor, hi,” Jack says, into the phone, loudly, so that Connor can hear him over the music they’re playing. “I think you should come play pong with me. I told this really hot girl I didn’t want to but I do want to, but I need you to come play with me instead of her.”

“Jack,” Connor starts, but Jack cuts him off.

“I know that we’re fighting, but I feel really bad about that. And I really want to win the Beanpot and I think maybe if we weren’t fighting we would be better at hockey. And beer pong.”

“Jack—”

“So can you come over here and we can stop fighting and play beer pong?”

“Jack,” Connor says. It’s hard to hear him, with the music, so Jack gets up and walks onto the front porch where it’s quieter. “You’re really drunk, right now.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack says, “but I still feel, like. I don’t know. A lot. I feel a lot of things. But mostly I don’t want to be fighting with you anymore.”

He feels a little less drunk out in the cold, but. Not a lot less drunk, which doesn’t matter, because he still knows what he needs to do. “I need you to come over to my room,” he tells Connor.

“I thought you needed me to come play beer pong.”

“No, that was a minute ago. Now I need you to come to my room, okay? I’m going to go back to my room and I want you to come there. So that we can talk. Okay?”

It’s quiet, for a long time. “Okay,” Connor says finally. 

…

Jack goes back inside to get his coat, because he doesn’t want to be like that kid he read about who went to sleep in a snowbank. Also, he finds Johnny Mac and says, “don’t come home, okay? Connor’s coming over so that we can stop fighting.”

Johnny raises his eyebrows in a way that Jack does not appreciate, but the girl he’s got his arm around says, “you can stay with me,” so he gives Jack a fist bump anyway when Jack puts his hand out.

“Say ‘hi’ to the wifey for me,” LaCouvee says, when Jack kisses him goodbye on the cheek. “Don’t go to bed angry, Eichs. That’s the first rule of a pong partnership.”

…

Connor beats him back, which might be because Jack took a beer for the road. He’s sitting against the wall next to the door when Jack manages to make it up the final set of stairs, and Jack slumps down next to him, which. Is probably a bad idea, because then he doesn’t want to get up again, when Connor says, “can we go into your room?”

But he makes it up eventually, and even gets his key in the lock on the first try. 

“For the record,” Connor says, as Jack hits the lights. “I still think we should do this when you’re sober.”

“I might still be mad at you when I’m sober,” Jack tells him, as he struggles to get out of his coat. “I can’t tell.”

“That’s probably fair,” Connor says softly. “Here, let me.” He unzips Jack’s coat, which helps, with being able to get it off. “Listen,” he says. 

“Okay. No, wait. You listen. It’s important.”

Connor sighs. “Okay, fine.”

“No,” Jack decides, “nevermind. You can go first.”

“Oh my god, Jack,” Connor says. “Okay. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Jack says. He’s looking for the edge of his bed, so that he can sit there, but it seems very far away. “I’m so sorry, too, Connor, and that’s what I wanted to tell you. I made you cry.”

“I didn’t cry, Jack. But thanks.”

“I cried. I mean, not when you said, like, whatever. That I was immature. Before that.”

“Oh,” Connor says, just as Jack finally finds his bed. “Well, I. I’m sorry about the tournament, too, okay? I don’t know how to say that right, because I don’t want to be sorry about my team, but I am sorry about your team, because that sucks and I know you think you could have done more, even though I don’t think it’s true. But I’m mostly sorry because I've been thinking about what you said, and I should have given you space if you needed it and not taken that personally, even though I did. So I’m sorry for that.”

Jack lays back and closes his eyes, which feels nice. A little bit because he feels like he might cry again, but mostly because he’s exhausted. “Did you practice that speech?” He wonders out loud.

“A little bit,” Connor says, and then Jack feels him starting to take off Jack’s shoes, which. Is a great idea. “I made flash cards, so I can probably even repeat it, if you don’t remember this when you’re sober.”

“I’ll remember it,” Jack promises, and then sits up on his elbows. “Hey, Mac. I mean it too, okay? I know I’m kinda drunk and I’m sorry about that but there was tequila. But I do mean it that I’m sorry. Because I know I got mad when I shouldn’t and I said some shitty things.”

“It’s okay,” Connor says, and sits down next to Jack. “I know you won’t believe this, but. I know how it feels, to lose like that.”

“No,” Jack says slowly. This time when he falls back, Connor follows him. “I thought I did, too. But this was. Worse. I don’t know. It’s like, we cared so much, you know? I cared so much. I thought, like, this is my last chance with my boys, and I cared, like, way more than I ever have before. And I cared so much that I kind of thought that maybe that would work. And it didn’t. And then I still cared, and. It was the worst.”

Connor breathes out. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It was just... so bad.” Jack says, and throws his arm over his eyes. “I don’t even know how to... like, say it right. I just didn’t think it was possible to care so much that it felt, like, fucking inevitable. But it wasn’t, and it hurt, and it was my chance to maybe win something before... before. And I didn’t. And, like. All I can think is that it’s going to be like this forever now. And that sucks even worse. I just keep thinking, it’s always going to be like this. It’s always going to be like this.”

“Hey,” Connor says, and rolls onto an elbow. He’s sort of towering, when Jack cracks an eye open. “It’s not always going to be like this.”

“What if it is.”

“It’s not going to be,” Connor says. “Because we’re going to win a lot more, together. And then you’re going to get to play in the NHL and a team is going to be so fucking lucky to have you and you’re going to win a lot more there, too. Okay? Like, yeah, we’re going to lose sometimes. But we’re going to win a fucking lot too, okay?”

It feels, like. Too late and too drunk and too much to say anything else that Jack is thinking, like  _you are,_ or  _but I'm always going to lose to you_ or even  _maybe winning without you doesn’t count, anyway._ He just closes his eyes and says, “okay,” and then, “you should stay here tonight because it’s really fucking cold outside and I don’t want you to get frostbite and have to get your finger chopped off.”

“Gee, what a touching moment,” Connor sighs, “I’m not going to sleep in Johnny’s bed. I know the kind of things that happen on his sheets.”

“Sleep here,” Jack says, “we’ve done it before, dumbass.”

Connor’s quiet, for a while. When Jack opens his eyes, he’s staring in a way that Jack really does not want to try to figure out at the moment. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Take your jeans off. Let me get you some water.”

“Kay,” Jack says, and squirms under the covers. It’s tight, with both of them, but they know how to fit together. 

“Hey,” Jack says, when Connor’s finally stopped squirming. “Connor. I love Noah Hanifin.”

Connor kicks him, none too gently. “Great,” he says, something a little strained in his voice. “Thanks for sharing, Eichel. Do you want me to give him a call? Get him over here?”

“No, shut up,” Jack says. “You didn’t let me finish. I love Hanny, okay? But I love you, too. I have a lot of love in my heart. I have a very, very big heart full of love. For you.”

“And for Noah Hanifin.”

“Yes,” Jack says. “Also, Fortchy. And Diff. And Gryzzy.”

“Okay, Jack,” Connor says, and puts his hand over Jack’s mouth. But, like. Lovingly. “You don’t have to list the whole roster, okay? I get it.”

Jack licks him, but just until he lets his hand go and Jack’s sure he won’t be smothered in his sleep. 

“Hey,” Connor says, as Jack’s drifting off. “Jacko. Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babes--I have a work event tomorrow night so we're droppin' this one early. Back to your regularly scheduled programming next week!
> 
> My fave Jack moment of the week: learning that he told an ESPN reporter that he thinks the new Seattle team should be named the "shockers" and either A) doesn't know what that means or B) has a good enough poker face that said reporter assumed that he was really that naive. Vote 4 ur fave below.


	6. FEBRUARY

Jack’s soaking wet with sweat, and with sparkling cider because they’re technically underage, and with beer because Gryzzy smuggled some in anyway, and maybe even with a few tears.

“Mac,” he hollers, draped over Connor’s back, plastered against him skin to skin. He’s not drunk, but he feels it, ecstatic and hyper and needing to be close. “Mac, baby, we fucking did it!”

Connor laughs half-drunkenly, too, and then Jack shoves him away, says, “that was so fucking stupid, dude, you had the shot and you fucking passed it?”

“Jacko,” Connor says, turning on him. He puts his hands both on Jack’s cheeks, suddenly serious. “That was your fucking shot.”

“So fucking stupid,” Jack repeats. They’d been two on one, and Connor had a clear shot, and then the puck was on Jack’s stick, instead. Luckily, the move had flummoxed the goalie almost as much as Jack. “What if I had missed, huh? What if I—”

“That was your shot,” Connor says, hand on the back of Jack’s neck, foreheads pressed together. Jack can barely hear him over the hollering, keeps getting jostled by overenthusiastic teammates. “You said that I didn’t get the Boston thing, and, I don’t know, maybe I don’t. Not really. But you do. You get it. It’s important to you, and that matters, and that was your fucking shot. You wouldn’t have missed it. I trusted you. Team Jack, remember?”

“Fucking stupid, fucking,” Jack repeats. There’s no medal, but this is winning. He feels it to his bones. He could get addicted to this. He pulls Connor into an embrace again, half-naked. “Fucking thank you, man. We’re getting so drunk tonight, swear to god. Kings of Comm Ave.”

…

They wind up back on campus eventually, back up from downtown, stumble into a house party. Jack feels like he’s flying, leaning up against Connor and chugging warm beer out of plastic cups as they reign at the pong table.

The other teams get bored of them, eventually, and then it’s just the two of them, flushed and plastered and giggly. “Dare ya,” Jack says, and closes one eye to focus on sinking a shot into one of the abandoned cups. 

“I can’t play against you, that’s not fair,” Connor says, but Jack can see it in his eyes, that he’s tempted. They’re pathologically competitive for a reason, in a way that nobody else understands. He won’t be able to resist.

“Not a full game,” Jack concedes. “Best of three. Winner take all.”

Connor looks away, a little too fast. Stumbles. “What’s the ‘all’?”

“Uh,” Jack says, and laughs. “Strip pong.”

“No.”

“Yeah, come on.”

“No, Jack,” Connor says, but he’s still laughing. He has—not a dimple, quite, but. Almost. In his cheek, when he’s smiling at Jack. “I’m not getting arrested tonight for, like, streaking or something, fuck that.”

“Shirt,” Jack pushes, and adds jokingly, gesturing at himself, “come on. You’re gonna win anyway, and then you get to look at this all night. Put your shirt on the line, McDavid.”

Connor drops his gaze for a moment, licks his lips. Then shakes his head, and laughs. “Fine,” he said. “Best of three. Loser loses his shirt. That’s fucking dumb.”

“Square up,” Jack says, and nails the freshman cup. 

…

They lose each other in the crowd when Jack goes to get a refill, and then the rest of his boys are there and Jack gives them a cuddle for a minute, drapes himself over Diff’s back. He smells nice, and LaCouvee pets at Jack a little when he turns up, too, and it’s fucking unreal, how much Jack loves them. 

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” Jack tells them all, when Fortchy squirms his way in between them. “Just like old times, eh, baby?”

“Wanna make out a little,” Fortchy half teases, “then it will be just like old times.”

Jack laughs and ignores the way the others whoop at him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, “Nobody understands me, Forts.”

“Winning makes you horny,” he says, “how hard is that to understand?”

“Love you,” Jack slurs, and kisses him on the cheek until he gets pushed away. “Gotta go find Mac.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Fortchy says, but he’s got a hickey on his neck that Jack pokes, so whatever. 

“Practice safe sex, boys,” Jack says, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully.

…

Connor, as it turns out, is on the back porch talking to an absolute rocket, holding a beer and shirtless and shivering a little. 

“Hey,” Jack drawls, when he rounds the corner, and he’s cold even with his shirt on so when Connor puts his arm out Jack slides under it. “This is my boy,” Jack tells the mystery girl, who looks a little amused. “This absolute fucking beauty. My fucking boy.”

Jack settles against the porch railing, tucks Connor into his chest backwards. 

“You seem close,” the girl says drily. 

Connor laughs out loud.

“I got him out of his shirt tonight,” Jack informs her, which makes Connor laugh harder.

“Right,” the girl says, a little archly, and flips her ponytail. “Well, maybe you can get him out of his pants, too.”

“Shit,” Jack says, as she stalks away. “Oh, shit, dude. Were you gonna hook up with her? Shit, did I totally fuck you over?”

“Nah,” Connor says. “Not really my type.”

…

When Jack wakes up, Connor is in his bed, which. It’s not the first time, but also usually Connor doesn’t drool all over Jack’s collarbone in his sleep, so Jack’s going to take the ‘L’ on this one. 

“Ugh,” he says, and rolls over, which is when he realizes that Fortchy is curled up at their feet like a spoiled puppy and somebody—or several somebodies—are in Johnny’s bed, though none of them seem to be Johnny. 

Jack’s hungover as fuck, and also a phone is buzzing constantly on his nightstand. It’s not his, because he keeps his on silent like a sane person. “Connor,” he mutters.

Connor shifts on the bed, which makes Fortchy sit up and give a wounded look, rubbing at where he just got kicked in the ribs, because the regulation extra-long twin is admittedly much too small for all three of them. 

“Freckles,” Connor mutters.

“What?” Jack says, “turn your fucking phone off, dude, it’s fucking early.”

Connor sprawls all the way across him to reach the phone, which does not help with the whole situation where Jack is still wondering if he’s going to be sick. He rolls over again and mashes his face up against Connor’s arm, half under the pillow where it’s still dark and semi-quiet.

Until: “Fuck,” Connor says, with feeling. 

“Ugh,” Jack says again.

“Fuck,” Connor says again, “Jack, check your phone.”

“What?” Jack says. He’s not even sure he can find his phone, at the moment. There’s just as good a chance that it’s still in his jeans from last night as that it’s somewhere on the floor of the house where they were partying.

“Here,” Diff says, and chucks his phone at him in an arc that nearly nails him in the nose. Apparently, it’s him and LaCouvee that bunked up in Johnny’s bed last night, which means that Johnny Mac is either sleeping it off in some poor girl’s bed or that he’s dead in a ditch.  

There are literally hundreds of messages, mostly from his family and friends about the Beanpot win left over from when Jack stopped checking his phone early last night. But, also, a few from his agent, which is... concerning. 

“Oh my god,” Connor says, into his pillow. “I’m going to be murdered before I even get to the NHL.”

Also, in his inbox, more than a few times. A video of him, clearly drunk, slamming a beer. “Buffalo,” video-him crows, “I’m coming for ya!”

In the background—Connor, equally drunk, shirtless, hanging off him. Laughing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiii guys i'm the mcfuckin worst. Big thanks to the three of you who simultaneously dropped into my inbox a few days ago and gently kicked my sorry ass into gear. Also? I stopped posting and the Sabres stopped winning. Correlation/causation? Can't take that risk. 
> 
> Looking at four more chapters and I PROMISE I will actually write these ones 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. Cannot emphasize enough that your comments truly made me drag out my computer at 11:30 last night and bang this thing out <3 praise be


	7. MARCH

“You know,” Jack says, sliding into the chair across from Connor. “You’re not actually grounded.” 

Connor blinks at him, looking up from his textbook. It wasn’t hard to find him—he's been at this same table in the library pretty much every night, recently. 

“You don’t know that,” he says, and turns the page.  

“I know you’re in college,” Jack says, “and your parents can’t ground you. Your agent definitely fucking can't.” 

“It’s not being grounded, Jack,” Connor says, not looking up. “It’s taking responsibility.” 

“Listen, I’m sorry, okay?” A familiar spark of anger lights up his chest, even if he doesn’t know why.  

Or maybe he does. It’s been... not great, for Jack. It’s also been—obviously and a little irrationally—worse for Connor.  

Jack got a call from his agent, too, but Peter mostly sighed at him and said, “Jack,” in the tone of voice that Jack’s heard from him all too often, the one that means, basically, that he thinks Jack is incorrigible but that he finds it maybe a little charming. Not that he would say that, of course. He’d also said, _stay off social media, approve this apology statement, and try very, very hard not to do any_ _more dumb_ _shit before June._ His mother had called him John Robert, which is never a good sign, and his sister had laughed herself silly on the phone, and his dad had said a lot of very well-meaning and soul-crushing shit about taking responsibility and being an adult, but he’d also said, before they hung up, “keep your head down, kiddo. This will all blow over.” 

Jack doesn’t know precisely what Connor’s people had said to him. He knows some of it, because Connor’s agent was still on speaker phone at minute 24 of the call where he said, _it matters because it is a tacit implication that you think that the NHL entry draft is a laughing matter, that you consider the honor of being selected first overall a joke, that you are mocking the people of Buffalo and that, perhaps most importantly, you choose to spend your time with less than savory characters._ Then Connor had hastily taken him off speaker phone, left Jack’s room to finish the call, and pretty much exiled himself from further team activities.  

Jack, who feels pretty damn savory, is fairly certain that Connor was about five minutes away from being flown off to Toronto to make a formal apology on national television and that the trip was only called off because his mother pointed out that he had midterms to take, and that it wouldn’t help their case if it looked like Connor wasn’t taking his classes seriously. He’s also pretty fucking sick of being ignored in favor of _English Law and the Magna Carta._  

So he’s a little angry about the whole thing, still, a little because he’s indignant on Connor’s behalf, but mostly because, in some twisted way, it doesn't seem right that even in the midst of something that is so clearly about Jack and Jack alone, Connor is still getting more attention.  

“You know I didn’t do it on purpose,” Jack carries on, “and anyway, you had basically nothing to do with it.” 

“I was there,” Connor says, with the grim conviction of someone who has heard this particular argument a time or five hundred, “drinking. Underage.” 

“Just. Whatever. Come out with us, dude, it’s been weeks.” 

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Connor says, color rising in his cheeks. “I can’t come out drinking with you. It’s reckless, and it’s irresponsible, and I have a quiz tomorrow.” 

“Fine,” Jack says, stiffly. “I’m not going to force you to do anything, okay? I just. Whatever.” 

Connor sighs, harshly. “What.” 

“Nothing.” 

“No, now I can’t make you happy, either? Fucking what?” 

“Just that, I know this is bad, okay? And I’m sorry. But you said, you told me that you wanted to come to college to have experiences that you couldn’t have next year. Normal college shit. And, like, what’s more college than a minor underage drinking scandal? Okay? This is going to blow over. None of those teams are going to care about it, at least not with you. And in the meantime, you’re not going to have any more fun until you graduate? Your agent has twenty more years to control your life. You don’t have to let him start now.” 

Connor sits for a minute, as if he’s still reading his book. His eyes aren’t moving, though, so Jack’s pretty sure he didn’t get totally ignored, which is a nice change of pace. “I really do have a quiz tomorrow,” he says, finally. 

“Okay. Tomorrow.” Jack says. “We don’t have a game, and you don’t have classes Friday morning. Let’s do something dumb that we can’t do next year.” 

“Like what?” Connor says, smiling a little. 

“Let’s...” Jack shrugs, “I don’t know. Let’s sneak booze into a hockey game.” 

“No, Jack.” 

“Yes,” Jack returns, already warming up to the idea, scrolling through his ticket app. “The Bruins are playing tomorrow, and I haven’t been to a game all year. And we can’t go to NHL games anymore, you know? Like, even after we retire. It will be a big deal if we aren’t rooting for our team, or whatever. I’ve never even been to a hockey game with you, you know that?” 

“I—” 

“This is my thing, okay?” Jack tells him, a little desperately. It’s happening, more and more often as the year rolls on: the moments where he thinks _I won’t get to do this again._ Spending Christmas at home and going to Happy Hour on a Wednesday and sleeping through econ. “Remember? We each get a thing to do, a normal thing. This is my thing.” 

“Yeah, but we said no hockey.” Connor’s warming up to the idea, though, Jack can tell. 

“I meant that rule to be about us playing, and it isn’t. I just want to go to a hockey game with my buddy, like a normal dude. That totally counts.” 

Connor sighs, flipping a page and then flipping it back, over and over. Stalling. Finally, he groans, says, “fine, I’ll come.” 

“Yes!” Jack says, and Connor shushes him, and so do like, three other people. But. Whatever. 

… 

Connor doesn’t end up agreeing to wear one of Jack’s Bruins jerseys ( _no, Jack_ ) or one of his USA ballcaps ( _fuck no, Jack_ ), but they are under cover, so he at least agrees not to wear any BU stuff, or any of his Toronto stuff. He pouts about that, but Jack thinks that getting into it with a crew of townies would probably not help them fly under the radar.  

Before they get into the arena, Jack pulls Connor into a tiny liquor store. The clerk takes one look at them and Jack’s jersey and drawls, “you’re gonna want one with a plastic cap that you can get through the metal detectors.” 

“Thanks, man,” Jack says, even as Connor blushes, and pays for a traveler of whiskey. It’s a trick he learned from his sister, although in her version, she had shoved the handle of the bottle into her bra, which is a fact that Jack wishes fervently he didn’t know. It’s also not something that he can replicate, for obvious reasons, but when he sucks in his stomach and tucks the bottle into his waistband, it looks pretty normal under his baggy jersey. 

Connor sweats so much going through security that Jack’s sure he’s going to get them busted, but they get through in a swarming crowd of black and yellow and Jack finds a quiet corner to pull the bottle back out.  

“People are going to see,” Connor says, nervously, but he swigs from the bottle when Jack passes it over. 

“Dude,” Jack says, taking a sip of his own. The mouth of the bottle is wet from Connor’s lips. “If you think that the crowd in the cheap seats at a Bruins game is going to care that we smuggled liquor in, you do not know this city.” 

… 

The Bruins win, which puts Jack in a very good mood. Connor loosened up halfway through the first and the bottle of whiskey, which helped, and now Jack is a little tipsy and Connor is very, very drunk. He blends in with the crowd, though, when they push their way onto the train, and he’s smiling for the first time in, like, weeks, so that’s okay.  

“Dude,” Connor says, for the third time since the game ended. “That pass, in the third...” 

“I saw,” Jack says. 

“I fucking love hockey,” Connor says, a little dreamy. “I forget, sometimes.” 

“You forget that you love hockey?” 

The train is emptying slowly, people dribbling off at every stop. There are seats clearing out, now, but they stay standing, pressed close together.  

“No,” Connor says, “Just, like. With the other shit. Sometimes I wish there wasn’t all of that.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Jack says. “Like the video shit. That sucked.” 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, and then starts laughing. “It was funny, though. Don’t tell people I said that.” 

“Uh, I won’t,” Jack says, smiling a little now, too.  

“I’m sorry I was shitty about it, too,” Connor says, sobering abruptly. “I think I'm kind of selfish, you know?” 

“You’re not. You passed me the puck at the Beanpot.” 

“Not like, hockey selfish. Like. Real selfish. Like, I don’t think about you enough. You know?” 

“No.” 

“Or like, anyone else, I guess. Like with the video, I didn’t think, this is gonna be so shitty for Jack. I just thought about how shitty it was going to be for me. Or coming here.” 

“To the game?” Jack says. He’s having a little trouble following the conversation now, which might be because he’s a little drunk, but certainly has to do with the fact that Connor is.  

“No, to college. Like. I didn’t think about how it was going to be for you, you know? Or for people, like, in the O. I just thought about how I wanted to do it.” 

“That’s not selfish.” 

“No, it is,” Connor says, looking at his feet. He’s slumped into a support pole, and Jack’s half-worried that he’s going to slip off. “That’s what a lot of people said.” 

“Fuck them,” Jack says, surprising himself a little with his vehemence. “They were being selfish, Connor. They didn’t think about you or your feelings or that you deserve to choose. They just wanted to, like. Make money and shit. You don’t have to do what other people want all the time. That’s not being selfish. You get to choose sometimes.” 

The train lurches, then. Jack knows this ride down to his bones, doesn’t stumble, but Connor does, falls into Jack and has to right himself. For just a second, his gaze flickers down to Jack’s lips and then back up to meet Jack’s eyes, and his cheeks are ruddy and his mouth is open and pink and, and it’s almost like... 

Then he steps back a little and says, a non sequiter, “my mom used to always tell me, ‘I know you didn’t get to choose this.’” 

“What?” Jack blurts, dumbly.  

“Like. We chose the hockey part. We didn’t get to choose the rest. It’s just how it is.”  

“Oh,” Jack says, and their stop is next, so he pushes himself upright from where he’s been leaning against the barrier next to the door. “Yeah, I guess. Worth it, though.” 

Connor grins at him. “See, Jacko? You get it. That’s why I like talking to you.” 

“That’s the only reason?” Jack teases, but. He gets it. The other guys on the team—some of them will get drafted, or have been drafted, but some won’t. None of them are like Jack, or like Connor, expected to do something big. None of them will be failures if they get a degree and play in a beer league and have a normal life.  

He thinks sometimes about what it would be like, if Connor was in the O this year. If the pre-draft talk, already ramping up, was more about an imagined rivalry than it was about the way they’ve been lighting it up together. If he was shouldering this team—this year—by himself.  

Sure, it would be more about him, maybe, but. He’s going to be the guy somewhere, next year, and so is Connor, and most of him is glad that he’s not expected to take it all on right now, not with everything else. It would be lonely, probably.  

“Hey, dumbass,” Jack says, and shoves Connor off the train when the doors open. “This is our stop.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shrug emoji


	8. APRIL

Jack tells everybody he doesn’t care when the Hobey Hat Trick is announced and it’s basically a formality. He tries very hard not to care. It feels like good practice, for June.  

The thing is—like the draft, it’s a given. Jack’s in the final three, and that’s pretty fucking exceptional, as everyone keeps reminding him. It’s an honor, and he’s a freshman, and he should be happy with that.  

And he is. 

But he’d be happier if he had a shot in hell at winning the thing, but he doesn’t, because what makes the whole thing actually exceptional is that it’s him and Connor, two freshmen and two teammates.  

Also, Jimmy Vesey, who people are talking about even less than Jack.  

Connor tries to, like, apologize to him about it once. It’s horrible and awkward and Jack doesn’t know what to say—honestly, he doesn’t really know how to feel. It’s his best friend that’s going to win it, so like, of course he’s happy for Connor, and of course he’s disappointed in himself, and of course he’s angry about the whole thing, and proud, and confused as hell. 

He doesn’t really know how to reconcile any of these things into English, so what he ends up saying is, “I’d rather have a NCAA Championship Title than an individual trophy,” which makes Connor look almost ashamed, which is very much not what Jack was going for, and so that doesn’t help. 

“I mean,” Jack says, grudgingly, scraping for something to say. “Not that I wouldn’t be, you know, happy if I did win it, obviously, but. You’re going to, and you deserve it, and I’m happy for you. I’m just saying, you know, I think it would be nice to win the Frozen Four, okay?”  

Then he adds, “How else are you going to prove that you’re the best?” Just because he knows it will make Connor a little crazy and he wants him like that, because making Connor desperate to prove something is the surest way to get a win.  

So.  

No, he doesn’t really care. 

… 

Connor’s family comes to town for the ceremony and for the final tournament games. Jack’s family does too, obviously, but everything is in Boston and so that feels less like an occasion. 

Jack’s met Connor’s parents in passing before, but he doesn’t know them like Connor knows Jack’s. His mom is chatty, much more extroverted than Connor is, and his dad seems pretty much like most of the other hockey dads Jack knows except wearing a nicer suit. His brother can’t stay for the games because he’s got classes himself, but he seems to weather all of the attention that Connor is getting with a pretty cheerful patience. Of course, he probably has practice at it.  

Maybe Jack should ask him for tips.  

Also, tell him to stop staring at Jack’s sister, when they all go out for dinner together.  

Later, they’re all shuffled into their special reserved seats for the ceremony. Connor is even on an aisle, which is the clearest indication that Jack has seen that Connor is already being acknowledged as the winner. Jack’s a few chairs away from him—Connor’s parents are sitting next to him, of course—but he can tell that Connor is trying to catch his eye. They didn’t sit next to each other at dinner; instead, Jack heard most of the details about what Mrs. McDavid does at work every day and then had the dubious pleasure of watching their mothers bond over the burdens of hockey-parenthood.  

Just before the lights dim, Jack finally lets himself look over, catch Connor’s eyes. He looks nervous, which seems a little absurd, but then, Jack didn’t have to worry about preparing a speech tonight.  

He totally should have smuggled a flask in like LaCouvee told him to. He could have made Connor take a shot in the bathroom, loosened him up. Instead, he just smiles the best he can, which feels a little unnatural on his face, like he hasn’t practiced in a while, and shoots Connor a thumbs up. It feels fucking stupid as soon as he does it, but it makes Connor smile back a little, tentatively, like he was waiting for a sign from Jack that it was okay to be happy about winning the thing. 

Which. He probably was. 

Fucking Connor McFuckingDavid.  

… 

The man who finally calls Connor up to the stage is so old that he probably knew Hobey Baker, like, personally. It’s a grating ceremony, to be honest, and Jack has to pretend to be interested because people keep looking at their row, where Connor is twisting the hem of his suit coat in his hands and Jimmy Vesey is staring ahead a little glassy-eyed and Jack is trying to keep from yawning. 

Then, he calls Connor’s name and the audience feigns surprise and starts applauding, and Jack claps along, too. He’s relieved when he smiles and it feels right, like he should be smiling, like the emotion there behind it—the happiness—is real. Connor is the only one in the room who looks actually surprised, even though he had to have known before like everyone else, and it makes Jack laugh a little. Only Connor McDavid would assume that he wouldn’t win this fucking award.  

“Wow, thanks,” Connor says. The old man hands him the trophy, which looks fucking massive and fucking heavy. “I, uh,” Connor starts. He’s not stuttering, but he still looks nervous, and Jack knows how much he hates being stared at. “I want to thank the judging committee, of course. This is a huge honor, and, uh. My parents. My whole family, actually, and. My hockey team, all of the guys. I couldn’t have... I'm really lucky to have a great group to play with and, you know. They make me look better than I am. So.” 

The room laughs at that, like they know how ridiculous that is, and Jack laughs, too. It startles Connor, though, cuts off whatever he was about to say, and his eyes dart around the room. Finally, he catches on, smiles. Says again, “Uh.” 

Jack’s not really sure a speech is required, here. The man looks a little itchy to take the microphone back and have pictures taken and be done with the whole thing, which. Jack can sympathize with.  

“Anyway,” Connor says, “Jimmy, you know, you’ve given us a run for our money all year and you’re so talented and it’s a real honor to be considered alongside you, and, uh. I’m looking forward to playing you again soon. And. Jack.” 

Jack freezes, blood rushing to his cheeks, suddenly hyperaware of the way that everyone has swiveled to look at him, even his own parents, even Connor’s. He feels like any expression he makes is going to be wrong, and he can hardly hear what Connor’s saying over the pulse in his head, anyway, so he mostly just stays still, uncomprehending.  

“Jack,” Connor says again. “You’re. I, um.” He shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to clear his mind. The trophy looks so heavy, and he’s still holding it, fingers white on the edge. “You know, if I had been on the committee or if I had gotten to vote, I would have told them that you deserve this trophy more than me, more than anyone.” 

Jack swallows, hard.  

“You’re the most talented player I’ve ever had the opportunity to be on a team with, and I hope you know that. But also, I uh. This award is about sportsmanship and leadership and if you asked any guy on our team who deserved that award, I think they’d all say you do. You’re so important to our team, not just on the ice. Obviously there, too, but. Everything else you do.” 

Jack’s mom reaches out, puts a hand on his knee, and he still can’t look away from Connor, and nobody else can look away from him.  

Connor clears his throat, which is. Deafening. The room is so quiet, suddenly, but Connor must not notice, the way he speaks to the crowd, now. “You all know how good he is at hockey, obviously, but you probably don’t know the really important stuff. Everything that he does that nobody else gets to see. So, I just wanted to say that, for the record. I’m Team Jack.” 

The man looks pained, coughs a little pointedly like he’s trying to rush Connor along. Finally, he notices, says, “sorry.” 

Jack looks away, finally, down at his own hands, breathing hard. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know how to feel now, any more than he did before.  

“Anyway,” Connor says, rushed and abrupt. “Like I said, Jack and Jimmy, they’re just so talented and so, yeah. It’s just an honor to be considered at all, with them. So. Thanks.” 

… 

When he finally sees Connor, after the ceremony, he ends up starting with, “what the fuck.” Both of their families are still there, watching, so Jack actually says it into his shoulder, muffled, when he hugs him.  

“Are you mad,” Connor says. 

“No, I just. What the fuck.” 

“I meant it,” Connor says when they pull back, surprisingly fierce. “And I’m going to win you a championship.” 

“Dude,” Jack says, “fuck off. I’m going to win me a championship.” 

… 

“I fucking told you!” Jack shouts, and bowls into Connor so hard that they actually sprawl onto the ice together, tumbling over. Connor’s screaming something as well, laughing, but Jack can’t hear him, not over the roar of the crowd and the way their teammates are bellowing, piling onto them, a squirming mess of sweat and adrenaline and happy.  

“I fucking told you I’d do it,” Jack says, beaming. His cheeks hurt, and even with everyone piled on them, he can feel the way that Connor’s clinging, bare fingers working under Jack’s jersey. 

“You fucking did it,” Connor agrees, “fucking beautiful, Eichs, fucking love you.” 

“Hey,” Jack says, and Connor’s helmet is off, his hair sweaty, and Jack puts his hand in it anyway, pulls their faces together. “Better than World Juniors?” 

Connor laughs again, shakes his head. Says, “always better with you, Jacko.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly have no idea how the Hobey Baker thing works or if there is even a ceremony. just lean into it.


	9. MAY

“This is depressing,” Connor says, as Jack pulls out another shirt. “Fifteen Team USA shirts, really?” 

“I’m gonna need this,” Jack says, and balls it up to throw in his suitcase.  

Jack is, nominally, packing for Prague, but is mostly scrolling through Instagram and occasionally throwing a spare sock into his ‘parent’s house’ pile. Connor is, nominally, helping him, but is mostly alternatively mocking his style choices and sitting on his bare mattress, playing some sort of complicated looking game with himself that involves a bouncy ball and one of Jack’s Red Sox ball cap.  

“You’re only going for, like, ten days,” Connor says mildly. “I don’t think you need all fifteen.” 

“Just because you’re not going,” Jack says, “doesn’t mean that I have to suppress my patriotism.”  

“Eh,” Connor says, and bounces the ball again. He’s doing a half-decent job of pretending like he’s not regretting agreeing not to play at Worlds, but Jack knows him too well for that. Connor catches the ball, then rolls over on the mattress to look at Jack upside-down. “Instead, I got to go to the fucking draft lottery.” 

“All part of the master plan,” Jack says drily.  

“Wish my master plan looked more like your master plan,” Connor says moodily.  

“It’s not even going to be that fun,” Jack lies. “Basically nobody I know is going. Larkin, but he barely counts, because he plays in fucking Michigan.” 

“I can’t risk getting injured,” Connor recites, which Jack rolls his eyes at.  

“Your agent’s a drag,” Jack says. Post Buffalo-gate, Connor had agreed to basically follow his agent’s instructions until the draft, in exchange for—something. Jack’s not sure what. Getting to finish the school year out, maybe. So far, Connor’s been instructed to win the Hobey (check), win the NCAA championship (check), pretend to be happy at the draft lottery (half-check, partly because Edmonton won and partly because he was sitting next to Hanny), outperform everybody else at the combine (fail, because Jack’s a fucking beast, thanks very much), and skip Worlds to glad-hand with the Toronto elite, instead, and also protect his knees (check).  

Also, generally stay out of trouble, which Jack will give him a C-plus on, because Jack keeps convincing him to do stupid shit, but so far they haven't been caught again. 

Jack’s agent just told him not to fuck up again, in so many words. So he skipped the draft lottery for a family wedding he definitely didn’t have to attend, because he knows himself and he knows that his face would have looked even worse than Connor’s, if he’d been sitting there on live TV. Also, getting in the middle of whatever little tiff Connor and Hanny are still having with each other, not to mention whatever weird Canadian cold war Strome and Marner have brewing up in the O, sounded, like, very not fun.  

And he gets to go to Worlds, which he’s trying to pretend he’s not excited about. He’s also trying to pretend that he doesn’t need this, which. He and his agent and Connor all know better than to actually believe. 

Because that’s the other part of it all. Connor doesn’t need to go to Worlds. He won at World Juniors, and he won the Hobey, and he won the Frozen Four. He’s a winner. 

Jack has only accomplished one of those things, and even though he’s projected to be a strong second in the draft— _a_ _consolation prize_ , he thinks, lying awake at night—he needs this win. Both for his own sanity, his own peace of mind, and for his professional stock. 

The other thing he’s not telling Connor—it might be kind of nice, to have a chance at winning something that nobody is going to be able to give Connor credit for. It makes Jack a little sick to even think about how fucking selfish that is, so he tries not to, and also tries to lie about how excited he is to get to Europe and get his skates on for real for the first time in weeks.     

“My agent is a very smart man,” Connor parrots back at him, clearly quoting someone. His dad, maybe.  

“Your agent made you go to the draft lottery,” Jack reminds him, and throws one of the shirts that’s been wadded in the back of his closet for seven months at him. 

“Ugh,” Connor says, and throws it back. “This fucking stinks, man.” 

“Smells like team spirit,” Jack says, and cackles at him, the way he’s got his nose wrinkled up. “That’s just what your face looked like at the lottery. Your Edmonton face.” 

Connor doesn’t even deny it. “Your face would have fucking looked like that too, if you were there.” 

“That’s why I didn’t go.” 

“Or if you were sitting next to Noah fucking Hanifin.” 

“Hey,” Jack says, “I always smile when I’m next to Noah. I fucking love that kid. Plus, he always smells like his fucking overpriced cologne, which is ridiculous but delicious.” 

Connor makes the same face again. Jack finds a sock that should honestly just be thrown away.  

“What’s your problem with him, anyway,” Jack asks. “You’re both leaving college next year. Even I don’t hate BC anymore.” Connor raises his eyebrows, so Jack concedes, “okay yeah, I do. They’re the fucking worst. But I don’t hate Hanny.” 

“He’s just,” Connor says, “I don’t know. Annoying.” 

“Well,” Jack says, because yeah, he’s fucking annoying. That’s why he and Jack get along so well. He’s also beautiful and rich and way too fucking good at shutting Jack down on the ice, all of which makes him more annoying. He’s still one of Jack’s best friends, though, and it bothers him for reasons he can’t quite explain that Noah and Connor hate each other so much. Also, when Jack had asked Noah this question last week at their favorite sports bar, Noah had said, “seriously, Eichs? I thought you had, like, a hidden rivalry. Should you of all people understand?” 

Which was a clear deflection, and also was clearly designed to make Jack forget the question and instead google whatever new dumbass article is looking for cracks in his relationship with Connor and predicting that Jack’s going to push him onto the T tracks sometime within the next month.  

“I’m annoying, too,” Jack says. “You still hang out with me.” 

“You’re not annoying,” Connor says, unconvincingly. 

“Seriously, what is it?” Jack presses. “It’s weird.” 

“It’s not weird. Sometimes you just don’t like people.” 

“It’s weird!” Jack says again. “He’s one of my best friends, Mac.” 

“Yeah, that’s the—” Connor blurts, and the look on his face is wide-eyed and self-betrayed.  

“That’s the reason?” Jack says, dumbfounded. 

“That’s not, like. The reason,” Connor says, and the look on his face must speak for him, because Connor looks away, and says, “I told you before. I’m, like. Selfish about you. I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong.” 

“You’re jealous?” Jack says, wrinkling his nose. 

“I’m not jealous, I’m just.” Connor says, and looks away. He’s crumpling Jack’s favorite ball cap in his hand. “You’ve known each other for so long, you know? You have, like, shit that goes way back. From when you’re kids. And you used to, like.” 

“Make out?” Jack offers, when Connor stalls out, and Connor jolts, looks at him with color high in his cheeks, and yelps, “you made out with him?” 

He sounds so shocked that Jack has to breathe shakily before he starts, “if this is a kissing dudes thing—” 

“No, fuck no, it’s not that,” Connor says. “I just. Didn’t know that. I was going to say that you used to go to high school together, and. I don’t know. Like I told you, I know that it’s wrong, but you asked why I don’t like him, and that’s it. I get selfish about you.” 

“Connor,” Jack says. His room’s all but bare. Johnny Mac’s already said his goodbyes and left with his parents, and Connor’s flight is tomorrow. This is their last night together, until. Until. He sits down next to Connor, on his bare mattress. He was going to go home tonight, but he doesn’t really want college to end. He hasn’t committed to anything yet, but he knows that this is it. He won his championship, and this has always just been a stop in the journey. Maybe he’ll stay in Connor’s room. His roommate is intimidated by Jack, anyway, he won’t say anything.  

“Connor,” Jack says again, and falls back. Connor follows his lead, and they squirm together, and Jack’s cheekbone lands on Connor’s shoulder. He doesn’t tell Connor that it’s stupid to feel that way, because it’s not. He’s felt it, too, the low ugly pang when Connor was photographed pressed up against Dylan Strome and laughing at the lottery. “Noah’s one of my oldest friends, okay? And he’s a really good friend. But he’s not my best friend. Okay?”  

“Oh,” Connor says.  

“You’re a dumbass,” Jack tells him. “And just for the record. Worlds would be better if you were going, too.” 

… 

Jack calls him, after, still wearing a bronze medal on a Czech street corner. It’s gotta be a weird fucking time of day in Toronto—Jack lost track of how clocks worked a while ago, legal to drink in Prague and fucking delirious off of victory—and he’s running up his phone bill, but what the fuck ever. Connor picks up right away. 

“I fucking told you you’d win,” he says, warm and happy, and Jack laughs. Connor had told him that when they’d texted earlier, and somehow, even the bronze feels like more than enough to celebrate. It’s either personal growth, or he’s really fucking drunk. Maybe both. Playing with the big boys, proving that he can hold his own, that he’s ready. That feels fucking great regardless of the fact that they actually won some hardware.  

“I fucking did it, baby,” Jack crows at him.  

“I was watching,” Connor says. 

“Is it late there?” Jack wonders aloud, and Connor laughs at him.  

“It’s daytime, Jacko,” he says. “I woke up and watched your game. Probably gonna go play ball hockey, later. Stromer and Marner are playing, and if I don’t go they’re gonna kill each other and then Noah Hanifin will go third, and nobody wants that.” 

“Hey, I want that,” Jack whines, just as Larks comes back to hug him again. He’s wasted, too, maybe worse than Jack, and he hangs onto him, pressing his mouth into Jack’s neck.  

“I was rooting for you,” Connor confesses, and Jack pats Larks on the head. 

“No you weren’t. You were rooting for Canada.” 

“I didn’t say I was rooting for the US. I said I was rooting for you, like, personally.” 

“How does that work,” Jack snickers, just as Larks starts chanting lowly, picking it up from across the street where the other guys are still gathered— _USA! USA!_  

“I was rooting for you until you played each other. Then I was rooting for, like. You to get a hat trick but Canada to win in overtime. I don’t know. I just wanted you to do well, and you did, because you’re fucking great at hockey, so. Who is that, anyway?” 

“Larks,” Jack tells him. “The last time I saw him this drunk, he made out with Werenski for like, an hour. He’s giving me a hickey as we speak.” 

“No, I’m not,” Dylan says, but Jack’s neck is definitely wet.  

“Feels fucking great,” Jack says in to the phone. “The winning, not the hickey. Thanks for rooting for me, even if it didn’t really count ‘cause you’re still Canadian.” 

“You know I’m Team Jack,” Connor tells him. His voice is warm and low and it might just be because Dylan’s still leaning on him and the contact feels good, but Jack’s feeling flushed and warm and a little needy. Like he’d ask Connor to tell him how good he was again, if it wouldn’t be totally fucking embarrassing. But then again, like Fortchy always says—winning makes him horny.  

“You know it, baby,” Jack says, a little nonsensically. “Wish I was there to kick ass at ball hockey with you.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re going to go out and celebrate your win like you should, and it’s boring here anyway.” 

“No, I don’t,” Jack admits. “Just, like I said before. It’d be better if you were here, too.” He doesn’t mention how Connor would be on a different team if he was here, and neither does Connor.  

“Hey, Eichs,” someone bellows from across the street. Jack can’t tell who, but he knows he loves them, because they’re wearing a bronze medal, too. “Tell your girl goodbye, and come fucking drink with us!” 

“You should go,” Connor says, just as Jack says, “I should go.” 

It’s silent for a minute, and Jack laughs again. “Jack,” Connor says, then.  

“Yeah.” 

“Don’t make out with Dylan Larkin. Okay?” 

Dylan’s drooping, a little, Jack loops an arm around his waist to hold him up. He has no desire to kiss him.  

“Okay,” he says, easily enough. “Hey, Connor. Don’t make out with Dylan Strome.” 

“Okay,” Connor says. “Bye, Jack. Have fun. You deserve it, okay?”  

“Okay,” Jack agrees. “See you in June?” 

“Yeah, Jacko,” Connor says. “See you in June.”


	10. JUNE

Connor comes back from dinner with his family later than Jack does. Jack's already laying back on his bed with his jeans off and Friends queued up on the TV to calm Connor's inevitable pre-bed nervous breakdown when Connor comes through the door and says, "we're going to the beach." 

It’s been a long few days. They're in Florida, which Jack thought would include a lot more beach and a lot less reptile, overall. They’ve been spending all their time with Hanny and Strome and Marner and Crouse. They’re all fine individually, but Strome and Marner don’t like each other and Strome and Connor do like each other, but Connor and Hanny still don’t like each other but Jack likes both of them, even though more and more reporters are asking him questions about how he’s not supposed to like Connor anymore, and there’s also a wobbly Canadian vs. American alliance that complicates everything further. The politics of it all are frankly exhausting.  

Plus, it's the night before the draft. They have all been made to understand very clearly that it will be a night where they all go to bed at a reasonable hour and absolutely do not drink any of the booze that Jack knows for a fact that Ryan Strome has smuggled into Dylan and Mitch's room.  

So when Connor says, "we're going to the beach," Jack says very intelligently: "What?" 

"Come on," Connor says, "I called an Uber. Put your pants on, we're going to the beach." 

"Um," Jack says, but he gets up and reaches for his shorts anyway, because that's Connor's pre-NHL captain voice, and the last time he'd heard it, LaCouvee was being told to stop dancing on a table at Red Robin.  

The lobby is deserted, the car is idling out front. "Is Stromer coming?" Jack asks, but he's not really surprised when Connor shakes his head. 

"We're supposed to be on lockdown," he confesses. He's blushing, probably because he had to drop some names—like maybe, his own—to pull this off.  

They're on lockdown, but apparently when Connor McDavid asks to go to the beach... well.  

The air is still warm, but the sand is cool. Jack can hear the waves on the beach, but otherwise the night is calm and quiet and perfect. It's not the Cape, but the salt in the air smells the same.  

They don't talk. It feels like maybe there's nothing else to say, at this point. Everything is happening, with or without their permission, and there's nothing to do now but wait. They just have to ride the wave. 

They walk for a while along the boardwalk, quiet. There are restaurants up near the road with lights and people and noise, a jogger or two that passes them in the dusk, but Jack waits until they find a quiet cove before he veers towards the water and takes his shoes off, sits with his feet where the tide is rolling in. His shorts are going to get wet, probably, but he doesn't really care. 

Connor sits next to him. When Jack leans his weight back onto his arms, their fingers brush.  

"What's with the field trip," Jack asks, finally, voice so quiet it's almost drowned out by the waves breaking down on the beach.  

Connor doesn't answer, at first, and Jack wonders if he really didn't hear. "You love the ocean," Connor says, finally.  

Jack almost laughs, even though nothing's really funny. "Yeah," he says. "You know, I had Friends all ready to go, back at the hotel." 

"You hate David Schwimmer," Connor says, and Jack shrugs. 

"Yeah," he says again.  

They sit there for a while, and the tide comes in and soaks the back of Jack's shorts like he thought it would, and neither one of them moves.  

"Big day tomorrow," Connor says finally, when it's gone from dusk to true black, the faintest silhouette of him visible by a street light up on the road.  

Jack laughs. He can't not, because it's something his mom would say; it's something his mom _did_ say, earlier tonight at dinner. He laughs because it's something his mom would say, and so of course it's something that Connor would say, too, and because he just said it. He laughs because it's true and because it's Connor's day, really, but he used his get out of jail free card with the NHL to take Jack to see the ocean, because... 

Because. Jack knows, and he doesn't know.  

He's shivering, he realizes suddenly, and it's not just because of the cold sand and the cold water. It's because it terrifies him, sometimes, how soft this fucking kid is. It terrifies him that he feels like someone needs to protect Connor, all of his impulses and quirks, and he feels like it's his job, now, and has been since September, and he's  _good_ at it and won't get the chance to do it, for much longer. It terrifies him that he's going to have to let someone else take that on, now, even if it's Connor himself.  

He imagines that phone call, to Taylor Hall or Jordan Eberle or someone else.  _He needs you to be gentle with him, but don't tell him that. Not too gentle, though, because he'll need you to push him. He's not as shy as he seems and he's not as naïve, but he'll use his fame to do something stupid for his friend instead of using it to get laid. He'll try to fight on the ice if you let him, but he's less brave off of it. Don't let him within ten feet of a kitchen. Make sure he talks about something other than hockey, every once in a while. He won't want to, but it's healthy. He holds babies like hand grenades but he'd rather sign an autograph for a kid than for an adult. He's allergic to shellfish, but he forgets to tell waiters._  

He could write a whole book about it, probably. Maybe he should; he'd make a killing.  _The Care and Keeping of Connor McDavid._  

"You're cold," Connor says, and Jack's not, but he stands up, anyway.  

"Let's go back," he says.  

… 

Jack wore his tennis shoes to the beach. Rookie mistake, but also unavoidable, considering the ambush.  

So, like. When Connor says it, he's dumping sand out of his shoes and into the bathtub.  

He's literally holding his tennis shoe upside-down over the bathtub, when Connor says, "I love you." 

Jack drops the shoe with a not insignificant thump. 

Connor's looking at him, steady, and they’ve said this to each other before, but.  

Jack knows. He knows that it's different.  

"Oh, Christ, Connor," he says, and drops his face into his palms.  

"I'm sorry," Connor says, and then his arms come up around Jack like he's the one who needs comforting, and that makes it worse, and it's back now, that bone-chilling terror of knowing that somehow—stupidly—Jack's the one who's been left in charge of guarding Connor McDavid's... 

Well, his heart, probably, although that feels suddenly insignificant. His whole self, more like. Jack's the one who's supposed to keep Connor from getting hurt, and he's laughably underqualified. 

"I'm sorry," Connor says again, soothing, and they've hugged a hundred times but it's never been like this, never with Jack's hands over his face, breathing hard into Connor's neck, never with Connor's hands fluttering around his back, unsure. "I know I shouldn't have told you. I didn't want to make things uncomfortable." 

"I love you," Jack says, miserable. "I do. You're my best friend." 

"But," Connor says softly, before Jack can. "You’ve never thought about me like that before. I know that. It's okay." 

He drops his arms and makes to walk away, and that's fair, probably—he shouldn't have to stand here in front of Jack, not after this—but it makes Jack's stomach drop, anyway. He can't imagine letting Connor go.  

It's like... months of Connor, and picturing life without him feels like something worse than a loss. It feels like a void. Like, Jack's had lots of hockey friends, but never like this. Like, months of not saying anything and pretending not to see anything and pretending not to think about it in the dark, and it's going to hit him like a freight train.  

"No," Jack says. Like, it's months of texting before bed and all those times that Connor slept over and it's sneaking whiskey into the cheap seats on the off chance of making him smile. Like, losing at world juniors and letting Connor back into his bed and the way that thinking about Edmonton makes his skin crawl and how sometimes at the bar Jack would rather help prop Connor up on the walk back down Comm Ave than take a girl's number. "But what if I wanted to. Start. Thinking about you like that, I mean." 

Connor turns back, a look on his face that... well. Jack wants to start doing anything that will make Connor stop looking like that. 

"I just said it so..." Connor says, and shrugs. "Not to make you, like. Feel bad. Just. This was my thing, you know? For the year? In January, that was my resolution, to tell you. And the draft was the deadline, so." 

Jack wants to say,  _That long?_  He doesn't. He feels surprisingly unsurprised. He says, again, "I love you."  

Connor's looking away from him, now. Jack's afraid that he'll never look back. Connor looks small, and shaken, but he doesn't look regretful. He's so much braver than Jack, in most of the ways that matter.  

"Not like that," Connor says, softly. 

Up until five minutes ago, Jack may have pretended to agree with this. And yet.  

Jack can't stop thinking about touching him.  

"I mean," Jack says. Back in March, he had tasted Connor's mouth on the rim of a plastic whiskey bottle. After their Beanpot win, he had wrapped Connor in his arms on a porch, bare-chested, and hadn't wanted to let go. Just last month, he’d called him from abroad when Connor had nothing to celebrate himself, just because he’s always Jack’s first call. And now.  

"I didn’t know I was allowed," he says, throat burning. "We were teammates, and I didn’t know if you... I didn’t even know if you weren’t straight, not for sure. So. I didn’t think about it, because it was easier that way and because I couldn’t, because if I did, if I let it happen and you didn’t feel... or if, like, someone found out or something happened. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Or me, I guess. So I just didn’t think about it.”  

"Jack," Connor says, but he turns back around. 

"I’m thinking about it now," Jack says, "I don’t know how to explain it to you, but it’s not just... It’s not sudden, okay, and it’s not because I want to make you feel better or because I think I need to say it back or anything like that. It’s just. You’re my best friend, and I love you." 

"Jack," Connor says, tremulous, and Jack's tired of waiting, now, and it's his turn to be brave. So. 

He does it.  

It's an easy kiss, in some ways, because Connor stands so still. It's easy because, yeah, Jack's thought about this for longer than he might want to admit to himself. It's easy because he feels it through his whole body, bone deep, in his bare toes against the cold tile floor and in his fingers, tangled in Connor's hair, and in the low jolt of heat in his belly.  

And it's easy because Connor kisses back.  

Their lips brush for a moment, dry, and then Jack sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down a little, and the sound Connor makes is... Jack goes a little syrupy, all over, sways into him and licks over into his mouth, velvety and wet and plush, and makes a frankly indecent sound in return.  

When Jack pulls back, he's dizzy, a little, needs the way Connor is propping him up. 

"Oh," Connor says, after a long moment, and it tears a laugh from Jack, sudden and too loud in the echoing bathroom.  

"I’m going to keep thinking about it," Jack says, lips brushing the unruly hair falling over Connor's forehead. "If that’s okay with you." 

… 

They sleep... they don't sleep together, like, in the biblical sense. It’s late and it’s new to both of them and the whole guy thing is new to Connor, it turns out. They do sleep in the same bed, not even as close as they've ended up in the past, dead drunk. Somehow, it feels like more anyway. Better. 

When Jack wakes, ten minutes before his alarm, Connor's spread out on his back, face tipped away from him. They're holding hands under the covers. 

It feels a little fonder than Jack might like to admit. Even though they're like, in love and shit.  

He takes the first shower while he has a chance. He's not thinking too much about the day ahead, really, because everything's pretty much a foregone conclusion. He does think a little bit about Connor, about the night before, about learning that Connor likes to have his neck kissed and doesn't mind it when Jack calls him baby and doesn’t mind having his hair pulled when he’s sucking a guy off, which he’s at his own admission a little more into than he might have thought.  

He's thinking about that, still, when Connor pulls back the shower curtain. Jack's hard, and isn't doing much to hide it, but then, Connor’s in pretty much the same state. 

"Hi," Jack says, and lowers his hands from where he was rinsing the shampoo from his hair.  

"Hi," Connor says back, and he bites his lip. It's not shy. Shy would be him blushing and looking away. Jack's never seen this exact version of Connor before, though he can venture a guess. It's exciting in ways he didn't know to expect, that there are still parts of Connor that he gets to learn about.  

Connor doesn’t need a hand to climb into the shower, but Jack extends one to him, anyway.  

"Sleep okay?" He asks. Connor's hair goes dark quickly under the water, near-blonde to dark gold. Jack likes that he can watch it happen. 

"Yeah," Connor says, eyes closed and head tipped back. "You?" 

"Mmm-hmm," Jack says, and doesn't try hard to hide the leer in his voice. He puts a hand on Connor's waist so he doesn't startle him, then steps in closer. He's been thinking about kissing Connor's bottom lip since he woke up, since he was allowed to notice the way Connor's mouth went soft and slack in sleep.  

And Connor's here with him, and so... he does.  

Connor lets it happen, for a moment. It's a little clumsy, the water in Jack's face when Connor tips his head, and they haven't brushed their teeth yet, but. It's nice. It's nice to think that in a few months, this will be the morning that they woke up together for the first time, that they showered together for the first time, and not just the morning that they got drafted.  

Connor sighs after a moment, regretful, even though he can't stop touching Jack, over his chest and down his back and slipping down a little, over his ass. "We don't have time," Connor says, after another kiss. 

"I know," Jack says, but he doesn't pull back. Their cocks nudge up together when he leans in for another kiss, a sensation that makes him groan, deep in his chest, and rock forward into the bowl of Connor's hips. 

"Jack," Connor says, but Jack loves the way Connor says his name and he loves the way Connor fists a hand in the wet mess of curls at the nape of Jack's neck and he loves the way that Connor doesn't pull away, when Jack presses his hips forward again.  

"Just... quick," Jack says, as if he's apologetic. He's not. Maybe he's wrong or maybe he's cocky, but he doesn't really think that either of them will lose their draft spot if they're five minutes late because they were making out in the shower.  

"Just," Jack says again, helpless, and if he truly had all day he might stay here and grind against Connor, see how it felt and how long it took them to come, but he doesn't. He files it away, and likes that, too, that he can do that, can think about something and think,  _later,_ and know that he'll still get to try. "Let me." 

He takes them together in one hand, anchoring himself against Connor with the other, arm around his waist. He still might slip and die, but what a fucking way to go. The mere sensation of it is enough, the tight grip of his fist and the length of Connor against him, the warmth and the friction and the sound of Connor's groan in his ear. It's worse when he opens his eyes, somehow more—first it's the sheer visual of them together, chests pressed up close and cocks aligned in his fist, and then he looks up at Connor's face, the flush on his cheeks and his eyes squeezed closed and the way his mouth opens over Jack's name.  

"Shit, baby," Jack gasps, and it's the slight edge of pain that sends him over, when Connor digs his nails into Jack's shoulder.  

He loosens his grip, oversensitive, and breaths into Connor's throat until he whines, impatient. 

"I've got you," Jack says, and he tightens his grip again, leans down to mouth at Connor's nipple. Connor thrusts up into his fist, helpless, but it's not until Jack says, "Come on, babe," that he starts to spill.  

He's shivering afterwards, even under the warm spray of the shower. "Come here," Jack says, soft, and tugs him in, presses his mouth behind Connor's ear. He holds him there, for a moment. It feels like he should say something, maybe, but nothing feels right.  

He pulls back, eventually, busks a kiss across Connor's forehead. "I'm gonna," Jack says, and jerks his head towards the main bathroom. He's already soaped up, but Connor hasn't had the chance. It feels like he deserves it, and also like if Jack doesn't leave now, he might never get it.  

Still. He doesn't leave the bathroom; by the time Connor's finished, Jack has his teeth brushed and is halfway through shaving. When he gets dressed, he thinks, that's when it might start to feel real.  

He hears Connor get out of the shower but doesn't turn to look. The long passes of the razor over his face are meditative, almost, and he doesn't tear his gaze away from his own reflection, but he's not surprised to turn and see Connor watching him, either, when he finally rinses the razor one last time.  

Their eyes meet, for a moment that goes on a half-beat too long.  

"You missed a spot," Connor says, and reaches out to swipe a thumb along Jack's jawline. In the next second, he follows with his mouth, hotter and harder than Jack expects.  

"Thanks," Jack says belatedly, when Connor leans back, slightly, faces a few inches apart. 

To his surprise, Connor flushes pink, looks down at his feet. Shy. 

"You have a birthmark," Connor says, and presses his thumb back where his mouth was. "I've always wanted to kiss you, there." 

It feels unfair, the way that the arousal sinks into Jack again, warm in his core. They just did this, and they have places to be, and they can't.  

And he still says, "where else?" 

"Um," Connor says, and he's still pink in the face, but he meets Jack's eyes, now. "Here," he says, and presses a thumb just north of Jack's upper lip, "where you get freckles in the sun. And here," and now it's a brush across the apple of his cheek, "where you blush the most. And," a hesitant finger across Jack's hairline, which makes him scoff and roll his eyes, "I know you don't like it, but I do. And... lots of places. Lots more places." 

"How about," Jack says, and presses two fingers against Connor's lips and then leans into kiss them without waiting for an answer. 

"Yeah," Connor says, breathless, and nips another chaste kiss, pulls back before Jack can slip him any tongue. "That's. That's the obvious one, Jacko." 

"If I started," Jack says, and thinks about everything that he wants to try. "I'd never... we'd be late to the draft, today." 

"Well," Connor says. 

"So," Jack answers, and steps back. He could kick himself for being the responsible one. "So. Go put on your suit, McDavid. We have places to be." 

… 

The reality of their situation is that they've done this before, what feels like a hundred times. When they get a little distance from each other and start getting dressed for the morning, it feels just like normal. Connor goes sock-sock-shoe-shoe and Jack think's that's stupid, but it's an argument that they've had before. Jack recognizes his suit because they went to the tailor together and Jack tried to convince Connor to try a purple plaid number that made Connor a little queasy, and because Jack picked his pocket square for him, when he landed on the blue.  

And yet—Jack sees him button up his shirt, top down like a maniac, and wants to take it right back off him. Connor comes over to tie Jack's tie with a smile that's miles too sweet for them, and Jack wants it to happen.  

"Hey," Jack says, when Connor turns to walk away. They're in danger of being truly late, now, but also... it's Connor's McDavid. They let him go to the beach, last night. They can all wait. "I just wanted to tell you. Um. You're going to go first, and you deserve that, you know?" 

"Jack..." 

Jack's hand his on his waist, and he keeps his voice low. This feels private, even if they are the only ones in the room. "No, really. Please listen to me. I'm not mad, okay? I'm not... I don't wish that anything was different. You're going to go first, and I need you to know that it's okay. You are... you're so good, Connor. You've worked so hard and you care so much, and you... that's your spot. That's the way it should be." 

"Jack," Connor says. Jack's not looking at him, because he can't, but he lets Connor embrace him. "I wish... I don't know. I wish things could be different for you, because you deserve it. You deserve everything. They asked me the other day, you know? Who I would pick to go first, if I could? I don't know if you saw that interview, but. I said you, and I meant it. If I could choose anyone, it would always be you. On the ice, or off. And I wish that you could hear that more. I wish people would tell you that, how great you are and how much you deserve this, too, and how fucking unfair it is that there's only one draft, and that—" 

"If you make me cry before my NHL entry draft," Jack says, only half joking, "I will never fucking forgive you." 

"Okay," Connor says, and Jack can hear in his voice that he's smiling. "Just. I'm team Jack, you know? Always. I'm so fucking proud of you, Jacko." 

"You too, Mac," Jack says, and it's like... they're about to go get drafted, across the country—across the border—from each other, and he doesn't even care. After it all, after everything dies down, all the media and all the pressure and all the veiled rivalry talk, he's going to go home, and he's going to know that there are some things that haven't changed.  

Like: "I love you," Connor says. 

And Jack whispers it back, and then squeezes him tighter, just for a moment. 

... 

In the elevator, standing too close together, hands brushing in a way that they can deny if anyone catches it, Jack says, "there are a lot of guys who train in Boston over the summer, you know." 

Connor laughs, and slips their pinkies together, and says, "oh yeah? Anybody that I know?" 

Jack can feel himself flush with nerves and the thrill of flirting with him at last and with knowing there are only seconds until the doors open and everything changes.  

“And you really haven’t done Boston until you’ve been on the fourth of July,” he continues, and squeezes Connor’s finger back.  

“Canada Day,” Connor points out, “we could do a long weekend. My family has a cabin.” 

“Sounds nice,” Jack says. “We go to the Cape, sometimes.” 

“You love the beach,” Connor says softly, and then they drop hands. 

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, “but. We can go anywhere, really.” 

He looks over, and Connor is looking back, face so soft that it makes Jack blush again.  _As long as it’s you and me,_ he doesn’t say.  

The doors open.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg we did it. you won't believe me bc I was the WORST about sticking to schedule, but I had this written MONTHS ago, literally right after I did the first chapter, and then I just had to fill in the gaps. I hope it was worth the wait <3 your comments and support on this story have given me life and I truly, truly, might not have pulled through without them. I know this little corner of the fandom is on life support, but I love everyone in this bar even though it's last call at two am and everyone else has gone home and they're begging me to get off the table and stop screaming about these two and I'm mixing my metaphors like I'm mixing my liquor. 
> 
> Basically, thanks. Love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> At some point, doesn't everybody have to write the 'what if McDavid went to BU' fic?
> 
> Plz peer pressure me into finishing this in a timely manner. Plz.
> 
> No research was harmed in the making of this fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Care and Keeping of Connor McDavid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790210) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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